THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

AND 

BOLDERO 


THE 
KEY    OF    THE    FIELDS 

AND 

BOLDERO 


BY 
HENRY  MILNER  RIDEOUT 

Author  of  "White  Tiger,"  "The  Far  Cry,"  Etc 


New  York 

DUFFIELD  AND  COMPANY 

1918 


> 

^ 


Copyright,  1918,  by 
DUFFIELD  AND  COMPANY 


To 

FRANCES 

S.  V.  B.  V. 

H.  M.  R. 


^72m 


CONTENTS 
THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

CHAPTER  PAGB 

I.  Young  Blood  and  Old  Tricks  ...  3 

II.  Shoeing  the  Ass 15 

III.  Wayfarers \    .    .    .  27 

IV.  The  Ligurian  Lady 41 

V.  Losses  by  the  Way 55 

VI.  How  Jackdabos  Became  a  Father  .    .  67 

VII.  The  Map  and  the  Place 81 

VIII.  Goiffon's   Garden 92 

IX.  Man-Traps 103 

X.  Exeunt  Omnes 115 

XI.  KoiA  Stream 126 

XII.  Guests  of  the  Poor  Devil  ....  138 

XIII.  The  Saracens'  Path 150 

XIV.  Selling  the  Ass 161 

XV.  Callers 175 

XVI.  A  Matter  of  Antiquity 186 

XVIL  Failure 197 


BOLDERO 

Chapters  I  to  XTV 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 


THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

CHAPTER  I 

YOUNG  BLOOD  AND  OLD  TRICKS 

Afternoon  drowsiness,  early  spring  warmth,  cov- 
ered the  old  stone  ramparts  of  Aigues-Mortes. 
Through  heavy  embrasures  from  which  long-forgot- 
ten sentinels  had  watched  Saint  Louis  and  his  Cru- 
saders marching  to  their  fleet,  the  sunshine  now  cast 
broad  stripes  and  wedges  of  light  over  a  deserted 
platform.  In  one  of  the  brightest  of  these,  under  a 
turret,  Jackdabos  sat  cross-legged,  refitting  a  block  of 
stone  into  the  floor.  A  big  brindle  cur,  his  friend 
Puig's  dog,  lay  snoring  beside  him.  The  young  man's 
trowel  made  the  only  other  sound,  as  it  clinked  on  the 
aged  stone,  or  scraped  fresh  mortar  neatly  into  the 
surrounding  crack. 

** There!*'  sighed  Jackdabos,  when  he  had  made  all 
smooth  round  the  block.  **Now  let  us  put  our  seal 
on  this  work/' 


4     .  /.       TIJE  KEr  OF  THE  FIELDS 

What  he  had  been  doing,  why  he  should  have  pried 
that  particular  loose  stone  out  of  place,  looked  under 
it,  and  put  it  back,  one  cannot  say.  Jackdabos  him- 
self could  hardly  have  told.  He  was  born  to  pry  and 
to  search,  without  knowing  just  what  his  fancies 
meant. 

''How  shall  I  write  it?''  he  mused,  taking  out  from 
his  rusty  brown  velveteen  clothes  a  carpenter's  pen- 
cil.   **Let  me  think." 

Thinking  came  lightly  to  this  young  man.  He 
smiled,  and  flourished  his  carpenter's  pencil,  compos- 
ing imaginary  words  on  the  sunlight  above  the  smooth 
edges  of  the  mortar.  As  he  sat  there  cross-legged, 
his  shining  black  eyes  ready  to  catch  an  idea,  he 
seemed  the  living  brother  of  that  Egyptian  scribe  in 
the  Louvre,  who  waits  forever,  so  intent  and  knowing, 
to  write  down  somebody's  next  word,  foreseen  but  not 
yet  spoken.  Jackdabos  had  the  same  clear,  elfin 
shrewdness  in  his  brown  face,  the  same  upward  quirk 
of  the  lips,  the  same  alert,  compact  body.  There, 
however,  the  resemblance  ended ;  for  he  was  no  terra- 
cotta statue,  but  a  youngster  of  flesh  and  blood — ^lean 
flesh  and  hot  blood — who  could  do  anything  with  his 
quick  little  hands  except  manage  a  pen. 

"Et  zou!''  he  muttered,  and  wrote  on  the  mortar. 
First  he  wrote  in  modern  Greek.  It  proved  a  rather 
illiterate  performance.  Jackdabos  knew  that  much, 
and  frowned. 


YOUNG  BLOOD  AND  OLD  TRICKS    5 

*'Pass  up  the  Greek!'*  said  he,  and  erased  it. 

Again  he  wrote,  this  time  in  English. 

**My  trowell  is  the  scourage  of  god,  where  shee  goes, 
nobody  ..." 

Once  more  he  paused,  frowned,  and  erased  the 
words. 

''Pass  up  the  English!" 

He  sat  staring  down  over  the  bare  inner  edge  of  the 
ramparts,  letting  his  thoughts  rove  across  the  sleepy, 
encircled  town,  the  huddling  pattern  of  Aigues- 
Mortes,  a  dull  red-and-chestnut  mosaic  in  tiled  roofs. 
Then  he  gripped  his  carpenter's  pencil  afresh,  bent 
down,  and  carefully  printed  on  the  mortar : 

**Ma  truelle  est  le  fleau  de  Dieu;  oil  elle  est  passee, 
rJierhe  ne  pousse  jamais.** 

He  pored  fondly  over  this  inscription. 

*'Ah,  magnificent!"  he  cried.  **They  will  under- 
stand that!" 

Throwing  down  the  pencil,  he  clapped  his  hands. 
Puig's  brindle  dog  woke  at  the  noise,  yawned, 
stretched,  and  gazed  with  bleary  eyes  along  the 
ramparts. 

*'It  is  not  without  magnificence,  my  child?"  said 
Jackdabos. 

The  dog  did  not  answer,  even  by  a  look. 

** Perhaps  you  are  right,"  sighed  the  young  man, 
and  fell  to  studying  his  work  more  critically.  Gloom 
settled  over  his  face.    It  was  a  face  that  easily  changed 


6  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

from  brightness  to  melancholy.  ''You  are  right/'  he 
concluded.  ''My  grammar's  bad  somewhere.  That 
is  always  the  trouble,  Jackdabos.  You  can  read,  you 
can  speak  languages,  you  can  understand.  But  you 
know  nothing.  Nothing  at  all.  And  you  never  find 
what  you  are  looking  for.*' 

He  rose,  went  to  the  battlements,  and  leaning  there, 
fell  gradually  into  a  day-dream.  From  the  southwest 
blew  a  warm,  vernal  wind,  bringing  to  his  nostrils  a 
faint  smell  of  Mediterranean  sea-water,  mingled  now 
and  then  with  sharper  whiffs  of  phosphate  from 
vineyards  bordering  the  Camargue.  Creeks  of  the 
Little  Rhone,  canals,  inlets  of  the  Gulf,  wriggled  in 
silver  threads  across  a  pale-green  expanse  of  marsh- 
land, sparkling  as  though  they  were  the  only  things 
alive.  Above  this  drowsy  present,  King  Louis  the 
Crusader's  ramparts,  massive  and  forlorn,  reared 
their  long  flanks  as  yellow-gray  as  wood-ashes.  A 
feeling  of  desolation,  mild  like  the  sunshine,  vague 
like  the  spring  breeze,  came  over  Jackdabos.  He 
leaned,  watched,  and  grew  still  as  any  part  of  the  old 
walls. 

**We  dream  but  a  little  while,"  thought  the  young 
man.  "What  is  our  dream?  Building,  destroying, 
building  up  again — and  pouf!  we  are  gone.  But 
Nature  dreams  forever,  and  knows  the  signification 
of  the  dream." 

Then  he  woke,  and  snapped  his  fingers. 


YOUNG  BLOOD  AND  OLD  TRICKS    7 

*'Ah,  the  devil!"  he  scoffed.  ''Let  us  sign  our 
work,  at  least. ' ' 

Returning  to  where  his  trowel  lay,  he  squatted  once 
more,  took  pencil,  and  began  to  write : 

"Jackdahos  a  travaille  ci-dessous,  le  .  .  ." 

Puig^s  dog  suddenly  growled,  and  rose  by  one- 
half,  that  is,  to  the  height  of  his  front  legs.  The  hair 
bristled  on  his  powerful  neck  and  shoulders. 

''Quiet,  my  child!"  cried  Jackdabos,  angrily.  It 
seldom  happened  (and  it  never  pleased  him)  that  an- 
other pair  of  ears,  on  man  or  beast,  should  prove 
quicker  of  hearing  than  his  own.  **He!  Arrive! 
Lie  down,  thou  devil  of  mustard  hue ! '  * 

He  turned  as  he  spoke,  and  saw,  at  the  height  of 
his  first  glance,  two  pretty  little  feet  just  clearing  the 
topmost  stair  of  the  turret.  Admirable  feet,  they 
wore  tidy  brown  boots  with  red  rubber  soles ;  and  on 
them  stood  a  girl.  The  sight  of  red  rubber  pleased 
him,  for  it  showed  that  his  hearing  had  not  been  at 
fault. 

"Ah!"  said  the  girl,  taken  by  surprise. 

Jackdabos  refrained  from  looking  up.  He  did  not 
stare  at  women,  though  he  observed  them  well  enough. 

"Good  doggie,"  said  this  one,  in  a  pleasant,  low 
voice.    "Good  old  boy!" 

"Take  care!"  cried  Jackdabos.  "Prenez  garde, 
mademoiselle,  il  n'est  pas  flatteur!" 

She  foolishly  reached  forward  to  pat  the  beast,  who 


8  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

made  ready  for  a  spring.  Just  in  time,  Jackdabos 
let  drive  a  hard  little  fist,  which  crashed  on  the  dog's 
muzzle  and  sent  him  sprawling  to.  the  verge  of  the 
platform. 

*  *  Oh,  cruel ! ' '  cried  the  girl.    ' '  Sir,  that  was  cruel !  * ' 

Jackdabos  rose,  and  bowed  low.  He  knew  the 
brindle  cur  much  better  than  she;  full  well  he  knew 
that  in  one  more  second,  but  for  his  blow,  the  girl's 
hand  would  have  learnt  how  teeth  can  tear ;  neverthe- 
less he  bowed,  accepting  her  rebuke  in  silence. 

'*Are  you  always  cruel  to  him?'* 

He  bowed  again. 

**  Always,  mademoiselle,  in  the  service  of  beauty 
and  innocence.''  A  grave  smile  flickered  about  his 
eyes.    **It  is  not  often  so — ^necessary." 

She  looked  at  him,  ill  pleased  to  meet  such  grace 
in  a  shabby  figure.  He  returned  her  look,  quietly, 
with  due  respect.  Beautiful,  he  called  her;  and  for 
the  matter  of  beauty  he  had  a  quick  eye.  Young, 
slight,  proud,  dressed  in  blue-gray  homespun,  she 
over-topped  him  by  a  head, — a  blonde  head,  confi- 
dently poised.  In  one  hand,  like  a  wand  to  indicate 
her  will,  she  carried  a  stick  of  polished  yellow  rat- 
tan, bright  as  her  hair.  Dark-blue  eyes,  wide  open 
and  set  rather  wide  asunder,  sparkled  in  disapproval. 

"With  permission,"  said  Jackdabos;  and  he  sat 
down  to  finish  the  legend  on  the  mortar.  "While  he 
collected  his  wits  to  recall  the  date,  Puig's  dog  came 


YOUNG  BLOOD  AND  OLD  TRICKS  9 

slinking  back,  nuzzled  his  ear,  and  lay  down  beside 
him  again  in  the  sun. 

*'At  least,''  the  girl  declared,  *'your  dog  bears  no 
grudge.'' 

*'No."  Jackdabos  thoughtfully  sucked  his  pencil. 
**He  is  good  at  bottom,  only  a  fool  on  top.  *Kind 
enough,  but  a  huge  feeder;  and  he  sleeps  by  day 
more  than  the  wild-cat.'  " 

Remembering  the  date,  he  began  to  write,  mean- 
while conscious  that  his  visitor  stood  watching  him 
closely. 

** That's  odd,"  she  said.  *'I  never  heard  that  of 
wild  cats ;  though  when  you  think,  it  must  be  true,  if 
they  are  like  tame  ones." 

**  Mademoiselle, "  returned  the  writer,  carelessly, 

is  not  then  a  student  of  the  natural  history?" 
No,"  she  admitted. 
Of  poetry,  perhaps?    No?" 

**Why,  of  course  I"  she  replied  indignantly,  as 
though  shocked.    '*I  love  poetry." 

*'Ah,  ah!"  Jackdabos  mumbled  his  pencil  with- 
out looking  up.    **And  the  drama?" 

She  flicked  her  boot  impatiently  with  the  rattan 
stick. 

*'How  siUy,"  was  her  answer.  '*  Everybody,  who 
has  any  sense  at  all,  adores  the  stage." 

**Ah,  ah!"  repeated  her  questioner.  **Yes,  yes. 
Poetry  and — the  stage." 


It 

n 


10  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

He  tossed  a  flying  glance  in  her  direction.  She 
caught  the  barest  glint  of  wickedness  in  his  black 
Egyptian  eyes,  and  was  tempted,  for  a  moment,  to 
fancy  that  this  little  velveteen  vagabond  who  squatted 
there  so  tranquil  and  preoccupied,  had  secretly  been 
laughing  at  her.  It  was  an  odd  fancy.  Indeed,  she 
must  have  been  mistaken;  for  there  he  sat,  lost  in 
contemplation,  tapping  a  march  with  his  pencil  on  the 
stone  floor. 

**Is  it  your  trade,"  she  asked,  "to  keep  ruins  in 
repair  ? ' ' 

'*Yes,  that  is  what  I  do,*'  he  answered — readily, 
and  with  a  charming  smile,  because  he  did  nothing 
of  the  sort.  **A8  you  observe.  It  is  perhaps  not 
interesting  work,  but ''  he  sighed — ^*' harmless.'* 

This  modest  melancholy  had  begun  to  please  her, 
when  he  spoiled  it  by  suddenly  adding: 

'*I  can  do  anything.'* 

Her  dark  blue  eyes  opened  wider  than  ever,  and 
more  scornfully. 

"Can  you  indeed r' 

"That  is  to  say,"  he  explained,  "anything  with 
my  hands." 

"For  example?"  she  suggested,  mockingly. 

Jackdabos  put  away  both  pencil  and  trowel  in  one 
capacious  pocket,  with  his  right  hand,  which  he  drew 
forth  apparently  empty. 

"For  example,"  said  he,  unperturbed,  "the  calling 


YOUNG  BLOOD  AND  OLD  TRICKS   11 

of  dead  things  to  life;  the  laying  of  a  charm,  a 
spell  .  .  .''  He  held  out  his  left  hand.  *'Will  you 
do  me  the  honor  to  lend  your  rattan  for  a  moment?*' 

The  girl  seemed  doubtful,  as  though  considering 
whether  her  talk,  begun  by  chance,  had  not  gone  much 
too  far  with  this  stranger;  but  in  the  act  of  turning 
away,  she  paused,  and  then,  curiosity  conquering, 
gave  him  her  walking-stick  with  the  air  of  one  who 
humors  a  child. 

** Thank  you,'*  said  he.    **Now  kindly  watch." 

Placing  the  stick  upright  on  its  brass  ferule,  he 
held  it  between  his  flat  palms — a  plain  yellow  stalk 
of  rattan,  with  a  bulbous  root  for  its  head. 

**The  jockeys  used  to  buy  this  kind  at  Bangalore," 
he  murmured.    *'A  good  stick.    It  will  obey." 

Slowly,  with  a  soothing  motion,  he  began  to  stroke 
it  gently,  his  hands  parallel,  his  eyes  following  them 
up  and  down,  up  and  down,  his  lips  moving  in  a 
whisper. 

**Obey!    Obey!" 

Of  a  sudden  he  let  go.  His  hands,  rigid  and  still 
parallel,  sprang  half  a  yard  apart.  Between  them, 
as  if  magnetized,  the  yellow  rattan  stood  by  itself 
on  end,  all  a-quiver. 

**Bow,"  he  ordered,  smiling.  **Bow  to  the  pret- 
tiest." 

The  stick  trembled,  reeled  slightly,  then  with  a 


12  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

queer  effect  of  almost  animate  dignity,  swayed  for- 
ward in  her  direction,  once,  twice. 

''Oh!  What "  The  girl  started  back  in  dis- 
may against  the  battlements; 

**Have  no  fear/'  he  answered;  and  even  while  he 
spoke,  the  rattan  fell  clattering  on  the  stone  plat- 
form. 

**What  is  that?"    She  stared  like  a  dreamer. 

He  laughed  quietly,  as  he  brushed  his  hands. 

**It  is  nothing,  mademoiselle.  A  kind  of  charm — 
magic,  if  you  like — a  very  old  trick.  Moses  could 
turn  'em  into  a  serpent;  but  he  had  no  monopoly 
of  that  skill,  for  the  magicians  of  Egypt  did  the 
same  likewise,  you  remember." 

He  returned  the  stick  to  her  casually,  and  sat 
thinking.  As  for  the  girl,  she  took  back  her  prop- 
erty with  visible  repugnance,  handling  it  in  a  gin- 
gerly way,  scanning  it  from  root  to  ferule,  ready  to 
drop  it  at  the  first  sign  of  misbehavior.  It  made 
none.    The  rattan  was  only  a  lifeless  rattan. 

* '  How  queer ! ' '  She  gave  a  doubtful  laugh.  *  *  You 
are  very — clever." 

Jackdabos,  musing,  shook  his  head  mournfully. 
Just  then  he  was  trying  to  remember  where  he  had 
seen  another  face  modelled  like  hers — Abroad  below  the 
temples,  tapering  down  toward  the  chin,  and  refined 
a  little  too  fastidiously,  too  perfectly,  along  each  deli- 
cate edge  of  nose  and  lips. 


YOUNG  BLOOD  AND  OLD  TRICKS   13 

**Ah,  bah!*'  said  he,  snapping  his  fingers,  impa- 
tient and  baffled.  **Bah!  Dia!  My  memory  is  no 
good.  The  sunburn  has  colored  you  so  wholesome, 
and  then  your  eyes,  mademoiselle,  are  so  lovely  dark 
sea  blue.  They  drive  the  resemblance  out  of  my  head, 
or  I  should  make  you  a  compliment.  Diable,  diable, 
diable !    Ass  of  a  memory ! ' ' 

She  looked  down,  and  saw  him  beating  his  round 
pate  in  despair  with  both  fists.  It  was  not  a  reas- 
suring pantomime.  Confounded,  also,  by  the  frank- 
ness of  his  words,  she  drew  silently  away  and  left 
him  there  by  the  snoring  dog.  Aigues-Mortes  lay 
under  her  left  hand,  a  picture-puzzle  of  tiled  squares 
all  fitted  together,  red  and  russet,  in  the  afternoon 
sun;  round  them  curved  the  ramparts  of  the  saintly 
Crusader,  tremendous,  forlorn ;  and  she  followed  their 
curve  toward  the  Porte  de  la  Gardette,  hurrying  to 
reach  the  custodian's  house,  for  her  way  seemed  dan- 
gerous and  long.  Stillness,  desolation  of  the  past,  a 
feeling  as  of  one  gone  astray,  surrounded  and  fright- 
ened her.  She  smiled  at  these  terrors,  but  did  not 
once  look  behind. 

**I  am  awfully  silly,"  she  thought.  *'I  had  better 
come  back  into  my  own  world." 

Jackdabos  remained  very  still,  watching  her  blue- 
gray  figure  dwindle  across  the  gigantic  are  of  bat- 
tlements.   When  she  had  disappeared,  he  rose. 


14  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

"Foul  donkey!''  he  cried,  Ms  cheeks  flaming  with 
anger. 

He  ran  to  the  nearest  embrasure,  and  flung  his 
trowel  spinning  into  the  sunlight  toward  the  mel- 
ancholy marshes  veined  with  glittering  creeks. 

**You,  the  scourge  of  God!  You  to  make  a 
charm!'* 

He  watched  the  trowel  fall  and  bury  itself  in  the 
spring  grass  below.  Ramming  both  hands  into  the 
pockets  of  his  velveteen,  he  shook  his  head  ferociously 
at  the  landscape,  and  ground  his  teeth.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  remained  thus,  leaning  out,  wedged  in  the 
parapet,  like  a  gargoyle  or  a  little  brown  goblin  left 
behind  to  guard  that  mediaeval  fortress.  Then  he 
laughed. 

"Ah,  bosh!  You  are  no  good!"  he  informed  him- 
self. "A  trickster.  A  mountebank.  Always  showing 
off.  Monsieur  Jackdabos." 

He  turned,  to  stare  along  the  ramparts  toward  the 
Porte  de  la  Gardette. 

"But  she  was  very  pretty,"  he  sighed.  "Come, 
dog.  Let  us  go.  Come,  awake !  Yes,  my  friend,  my 
dirt-brindle  savage,  that  lady  was  of  another  circle 
from  ours;  but  she  was  very,  very,  very  pretty!" 


CHAPTER  II 


SHOEING  THE  ASS 


A  SMALL  white  donkey,  wearing  a  bridle  of  scarlet 
leather,  stood  hitched  to  an  iron  ring  within  the 
ramparts,  pensively  flicking  her  ears  in  time  to  Puig^s 
hammer.  The  forge  and  anvil  lay  just  behind  her 
heels.  It  was  a  portable  smithy — a  handful  of  worn 
tools,  a  bag  of  charcoal,  and  a  bucket  of  water — set 
up,  or  thrown  down  by  chance,  under  a  vaulted  arch 
near  the  town  gate.  Puig's  hammer  went  cling-clang, 
but  lazily  at  long  intervals,  for  he  was  talking.  The 
little  white  ass  had  plenty  of  time  to  doze  and  wake 
again. 

**Why  do  you  think  so?^'  asked  Puig  in  his  quick, 
harsh  way.  A  sturdy,  grimy,  freckled  rascal,  with  a 
tight  little  reddish  mustache,  he  stared  at  the  bit  of 
iron  cooling  between  his  tongs.  A  leathern  apron 
covered  him  like  armor  from  neck  to  ankles.  No  cat 
had  paler,  greener  eyes  than  Puig's,  or  half  so  full 
of  calculation.  His  face  wore  a  puckered  smile,  not 
of  good  humor,  but  muscular  habit.    '*Do  you  think 

15 


16  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

at  all,  Barjavel,  or  are  you  talking  in  your  sleep? 
Why  should  we  go  to  Aries?  Is  it,  then,  at  Aries?" 
He  sat  uncomfortably  on  an  old  paving-stone,  and 
snapped  the  questions  over  his  shoulder.  Behind 
him,  where  sunshine  brightened  the  bluish  films  of 
his  forge  smoke,  Barjavel,  the  giant,  lay  stretched 
along  the  back  wall  of  the  vault. 

**Why  not?"  demanded  Barjavel,  without  stirring 
his  rotund  body.  He  spoke  through  a  black  felt  hat 
which  covered  his  face,  but  the  rampart  arch  echoed 
barytone  music.  ''Why  not  there?  I  remember  a 
certain  text  of  the  emperor  Honorius — hm!  Yes, 
roughly  about  four  hundred  Anno  Domini.  Official 
text."  He  yawned.  ''It  says:  'AH  that  the  Orient, 
all  that  Araby  with  her  perfumes,  all  that  Assyria 
boasts  of  opulence,  all  that  Africa,  or  fair  Spain,  or 
fertile  Gallia  can  produce,  all  these  are  found  in  as 
great  abundance  at  Aries.'  "  He  yawned  again. 
"Ah,  gods  of  mankind,  what  a  memory  I  have !  What 
a  brain  I  bear!" 

With  a  sigh  of  admiration,  Barjavel  stretched,  and 
folded  his  enormous  hands  again  to  sleep. 

"Bah!"  sneered  Puig.  "You  always  quote  some 
devilish  book,  and  tell  a  useless  fact.  If  I  ask  you 
the  time  of  day,  my  colossus,  you  answer  me  that  the 
Rhone  is  full  of  water,  Henri  Quatre  is  dead,  and  the 
Dutch  have  taken  Holland.  How  you  manage  this 
learning,  I  don't  know.     Where  do  you  read,  and 


SHOEING  THE  ASS  17 

when  ?  Never  yet  have  I  seen  your  bulb  of  a  nose 
stuck  into  a  book,  or  anything  but  the  neck  of  a  bot- 
tle. Bah !  Four  hundred  Anno  Domini  ?  Four  hun- 
dred thousand  Bulgarians  of  turnips!*' 

Barjavel  lay  breathing  peacefully  under  the  black 
hat 

*'I  study,'*  came  his  drawling,  muffled  voice,  **I  do 
my  reading  in  the  library  of  the  locusts." 

**Ah,  bosh!"  Puig,  returning  to  work,  thrust  iron 
into  fire.  *  *  Where  is  that  library  ?  Is  it  open  to  great 
fat  ones?" 

**It  is  not  open  to  many,"  sounded  the  musical 
voice  under  the  hat.  ''Indeed,  it  is  locked.  To  enter, 
one  must  have  the  key  of  the  fields,  my  friend." 

Puig  made  a  wry  face,  and  began  pumping  the 
handles  of  a  leaky  bellows.  The  fire  glowed  faintly 
in  the  sunlight,  and  his  iron  was  slow  to  heat.  The 
little  white  ass  gazed  round,  along  her  dusty  flank, 
wondering  at  the  wheeze  and  the  eddy  of  ashes. 

*'And  I  was  telling  you  a  thing,"  complained  the 
blacksmith,  ''of  importance!  A  thing  which  might 
fetch  us  all  great  sums  of  money." 

"Money?"  droned  Barjavel,  between  snores. 
"Money  is  not  important." 

Puig  dropped  his  bellows,  with  a  snort  of  irrita- 
tion. 

"You  need  not  be  so  god-like!  I,  for  my  part,  I 
also  do  not  crave  money.    But  other  people  do!" 


18  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

The  giant  in  the  vault  uncrossed  his  legs,  re-crossed 
them,  and  groaned  with  comfort. 

*'That  is-  true/'  he  murmured.  "Unluckily  for 
the  world.  That  is  where  it  pinches,  as  the  scorpion 
said.'' 

While  they  spoke,  through  the  deserted  square  came 
a  sinewy,  light-stepping  youngster  in  brown  velvet- 
een, with  an  ugly  dog  at  his  heels.  It  was  Jackdabos, 
exceedingly  wide  awake,  and  fresh  from  hurrying 
across  the  diameter  of  Aigues-Mortes.  Quiet,  smiling, 
he  drew  near  the  forge  and  plumped  down  on  the 
ground  between  the  two  disputants.  The  brindle  dog 
curled  alongside  his  master's  anvil. 

** Continue,  gentlemen,"  said  Jackdabos.  '*Your 
conversation  is  in  the  highest  degree  interesting." 

Neither  workman  nor  sleeper  so  much  as  looked  at 
him.  The  bellows  puffed  again,  the  ashes  flew,  the 
iron  turned  a  pale  red,  the  ass  lowered  her  long  ears 
and  meditated,  blinking. 

''Money  or  not,"  said  Barjavel's  voice,  out  of  aii 
apparent  slumber,  *'go  on,  my  dear  Puig.  Tell  me 
your  entire  story  again.  What  was  it  you  wish  to  un- 
earth?" 

Jackdabos  sat  up,  very  attentive. 

''Unearth?"  he  repeated.  "Ah,  ah!  Let  me  hear. 
Recount,  recount.    Something  to  unearth?" 

Puig's  cat-green  eyes  turned  a  baleful  stare  on  the 
intruder. 


SHOEING  THE  ASS  19 

**This  is  my  concern,  Jackdaw/'  he  declared,  in  a 
jealous  tone.  **I'm  not  the  clever  chap  of  our  party. 
I  can't  play  the  romantic  like  you,  or  the  poet  like 
our  fat  friend.  But  when  I  do  talk,  it's  clear  and  to 
the  point.  Further,  you  are  not  the  only  man  who  can 
discover  and  unearth  anything,  remember  that.  And 
yet  again,  I  know  wliat  I'm  looking  for,  me." 

Jackdabos,  with  a  quirk  of  the  lips  and  a  sidelong 
sparkle  of  a  glance,  agreed.  Crosslegged,  alert,  his 
round  black  head  bare  to  the  sunshine,  he  resembled 
more  than  ever  the  Egyptian  scribe;  and  like  that 
gentleman,  he  waited  pleasantly,  with  no  hard  feeling 
for  a  hard  word.  He  was  still  in  the  twenties,  Puig 
well  over  thirty;  toward  all  seniors  he  was  inclined 
to  be  respectful ;  and  then  he  liked  Puig,  though  noth- 
ing really  bound  the  two  men  in  friendship,  or  in 
common  interest,  except  that  each  had  borne  arms  and 
seen  fighting. 

**I'm  ignorant,  I  know  little,"  sneered  Puig,  draw- 
ing out  his  red-hot  iron,  and  hammering  it  to  the 
form  of  a  tiny  half-oval  round  the  anvil-point.  *'But 
that  little,  I  can  make  clear.  Iron-working  renders 
a  man  exact.  Hold  up,  thou  brute  of  atrocious 
habit!" 

He  caught  the  ass  by  a  hind  fetlock,  and  tried  the 
glowing  iron  upon  her  hoof,  amid  curling  smoke  and 
the  bitter  smell  of  burnt  horn.    Then,  poking  the  shoe 


20  THE  KEY  OP  THE  FIELDS 

among  the  coals  again,  he  laid  down  the  law  with  his 
tongs. 

"Attend/'  said  he,  frowning.  ''Here  is  my  story. 
One  day,  when  I  wore  the  red  bags  in  Algiers,  be- 
hold, of  a  Sunday  afternoon,  I  was  walking  a  street 
below  the  Kasbah,  with  nothing  on  my  mind.  There 
was  no  noise  in  the  crowd,  all  sunny  and  tranquil  as 
here,  when  by  chance  I  turned,  and  lo,  there  wan- 
dered past  me  a  sort  of  Frenchman  dressed  as  an 
Arab,  in  long,  sea-green  gown,  with  blood  bursting 
through  all  down  his  back.  I  helped  him  home  to  a 
frightful  cavern  of  a  room;  and  there  he  died,  being 
stabbed  right  under  the  left  shoulder  blade.  Bon 
soir!  He  died  badly.  It  was  not  at  all  diverting.  I 
never  knew  his  name,  or  why,  or  how. ' ' 

Puig  suddenly  remembered  his  bellows,  and  fell 
to  blowing  again. 

*  *  Attend ! "  he  at  last  continued.  *  *  This  dying  man 
was  grateful,  though  he  spoke  very  poorly,  and  his 
eyeballs  were  coated  with  blue  like  an  old  dog 'a 
He  told  me  how  a  great  gold  plate,  a  chiselled  platter 
of  gold,  lies  buried  in  the  garden  of  a  Monsieur  .  .  . 
Monsieur  Goiffon.  Now  this  garden  lies  somewhere 
on  the  Riviera." 

The  somnolent  voice  of  Barjavel  sounded  from  his 
hat. 

*'A  plate  of  gold?  That  is  trivial,  unlikely,  and 
vulgar." 


SHOEING  THE  ASS  21 

Puig  sat  erect,  as  though  stung.  His  freckled  face 
grew  all  of  a  knot  with  rage;  his  tight  silken  mous- 
tache bristled. 

*' Vulgar?''  he  cried.  **"Wait!  It  was  a  work  be- 
yond price,  done  by  a  fellow — what's  his  name  again? 
Ah,  bah,  tell  me!  The  fellow's  name  sounds  like 
something  to  eat.    Tell  me,  now." 

Both  his  hearers  told  him  at  once,  gladly,  chiming 
in  by  turns  with  satire. 

"Langouste  a  rAmericaine." 

** Sausages  of  Coron  the  Elder." 

'^Ecrevisses." 

*'(Eufs  durs." 

"Degustation  of  oysters." 

Puig  met  this  impudence  with  a  lofty  and  forcible 
calm.  He  began  punching  nail-holes  in  the  little  red- 
hot  shoe.  When  his  hammer  had  rung  many  strokes, 
and  he  had  been  sufficiently  implored,  he  bethought 
himself,  and  said : 

**No.  It  was  Italian.  And  nothing  to  eat,  after  all. 
What  the  devil's  that  name?  Come!  How  do  you 
call  matches  in  Italian,  wax  vestas?  You  don't 
know." 

**Cerini,"  said  Jackdabos. 

Puig  punched  another  hole,  before  the  shoe  became 
covered  again  with  the  gray  scales  of  cooling. 

**you  have  it,"  he  declared,  nodding.  ** That's  the 
name,  or  next  door.    Cellini. ' ' 


22  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

The  giant  sleeping  in  the  vault  rose  all  of  a  piece, 
sat  Tip,  and  whacked  both  feet  on  the  stone  floor. 

" Cellini?''  he  bellowed,  catching  his  hat  as  it  fell. 
"Benvenuto  Cellini?  Why  under  the  stars  couldn't 
you  say  so  before?  Pig  of  good  fortune!  This  be- 
comes a  practical  matter." 

Barjavel,  roused  from  his  noonday  dream,  had  the 
majesty  of  a  lion,  but  a  careless,  unkempt,  rather 
merry  lion  with  black  hair.  His  mane  and  beard, 
darker  than  jet,  covered  with  tousled  wilderness  all 
his  great  face,  except  a  pair  of  ruddy  cheekbones,  an 
Olympian  forehead,  jovial  red  lips,  and  big,  sleepy 
gray  eyes  beginning  to  glow.  When  he  yawned,  as 
now,  his  teeth  flashed  carnivorous.  Of  commanding 
size  and  presence,  but  clothed  in  rusty,  crumpled 
black  serge,  he  stretched  like  an  Assyrian  king  re- 
covering from  a  spree.  Yet  no  debauchery  hovered 
about  the  man ;  his  eyes  were  as  clear  as  a  champion's, 
and  his  huge  frame  had  nothing  to  do  with  corpu- 
lence. 

**Benvenuto  Cellini?"  he  sang  again.  **Go  on. 
You  begin  to  talk  sense." 

Puig  looked  shifty  and  doubtful. 

"What's  Cellini,  anyway?"  he  said.  "Something 
good?  Something  fashionable?  Money  in  him?  Is 
Cellini  fashionable,  or  has  he  been  a  long  time  dead?" 

Barjavel  frowned  mightily. 

"Don't  have  a  petty  mind,  Puigo,"  he  answered. 


SHOEING  THE  ASS  23 

**Good?  Something  good?  No,  the  best.  Cellini, 
king  of  liars,  emperor  of  goldsmiths,  god  of  all  splen- 
did line-workers.    Cellini,  le  hienvenu: 

**  'Welcome  he  mounts,  as  Welcome  down  he  came 
Into  the  flower  of  this  good  Tuscan  land.  * 

The  dirty  old  son-of-a-gun !  If  you  have  stumbled  on 
the  track  of  anything  Tie  made,  allow  me  to  accom- 
pany you!'' 

Jackdabos  cracked  his  fists  together. 

**Omen!  An  omen!*'  he  cried,  and  made  his  two 
friends  stare  at  him.  ** Cellini?  Hold  hard.  That 
was  the  very  thing  I  couldn't  remember.  Just  now  on 
the  ramparts  I  met  a  girl,  and  her  face  was  like  Cel- 
lini's Ganymfide,  that  restoration  of  a  statue,  fine, 
but  a  little  too  fine,  along  the  edges." 

'^Oho,"  said  Puig  unctuously,  **you  met  a  girl,  did 
you?" 

He  gave  Barjavel  a  wink.  The  young  man  flushed 
indignantly,  and  remained  silent.  For  a  time  the 
flow  of  their  talk  was  broken.  A  long,  covered  cart, 
drawn  by  two  plump  Camargue  roans,  rattled  across 
the  cobbles  of  the  Place,  and  halted  before  the  Cafe 
of  the  Universe,  where  the  driver,  a  gypsy-looking 
fellow,  descended  briskly  to  get  a  drink.  A  few  chil- 
dren— solemn,  brown-eyed  creatures  loitering — came 
and  paused  near  the  forge-fire  to  watch  the  shoeing  of 


24  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

the  ass.  When  they  had  passed  on,  disappointed  at 
finding  Puig's  work  so  slack,  and  when  the  driver, 
wiping  his  lips,  had  remounted  his  cart  and  driven 
rumbling  away,  Barjavel  resumed  the  discussion. 

*'My  dear  Jackdaw,'^  said  he,  with  a  gleam  of  pa- 
ternal benevolence  in  his  eyes,  ^'pardon  me.  I  have 
no  doubt  the  young  lady ''  He  paused,  and  re- 
peated the  noun  with  emphasis — ''the  young  lady 
was  of  a  rare  and  beautiful  design.  But  now  con- 
tinue, my  Puig,  my  brave  donkey-farrier.  Where  is 
this  Cellini  plate  of  yours  to  be  seen?  Do  you  know 
where  Monsieur  Goilffon's  garden  is?  I  might  be  of 
help '' 

Puig  the  surly  began  punching  holes  again.  He 
plainly  felt  himself  to  be  rebuked. 

*'Goiffon's  garden,*'  he  replied,  without  looking 
up,  *'is  somewhere  past  Monte  Carlo,  and  again, 
somewhere  beyond  a  place  called  Kochers  Kouges.*' 

*'0h,*'  said  Barjavel,  **I  know,  then.  It's  in  Italy, 
that  garden." 

Puig  burst  out  swearing,  and  spat  on  his  hammer- 
head. 

''What  rotten  luck!''  he  growled.  "Italy!  By 
the  four  corners  of  hell,  what  luck  I  always  break 
my  nose  against.  No  use  now.  We  couldn't  get  a 
treasure  like  that  out  of  Italy,  across  the  frontier. 
Good-bye,  gold  plate!    I  shall  stay  poor  all  my  life." 

He  dropped  the  shoe  hissing  into  the  water  bucket, 


SHOEING  THE  ASS  25 

fished  it  out,  and  with  great  energy  nailed  it  home 
on  the  ass^s  hoof;  then,  after  tweaking  the  points  off 
the  nails,  he  took  a  long  rasp  and  finished  his  job 
neatly,  so  that  the  hoof  shone  a  smooth  clay-blue, 
studded  and  rimmed  as  with  silver. 

Then,  and  not  till  then,  Barjavel  spoke,  combing 
his  wild  beard  with  sturdy  fingers. 

'*How  wrong, '*  he  meditated,  **how  wrong  you  are 
to  despise  reading,  which  is  the  antidote  to  despair, 
the  medicine  of  hope.  For  example.  Between  1894 
and  1907,  a  certain  man — one  single  man — ^took  from 
Italy  no  less  than  the  Chigi  Botticelli  and  the  bronze 
Bindo  d 'Antonio  Altoviti.  Come,  Puig,  you  did  not 
know  that?''  He  turned  his  quizzical  gray  eyes  to- 
ward the  farrier,  and  smiled.  **No?  Then  see. 
Reading  is  not  only  pleasant,  but  of  great  profit. 
We  learn,  boys,  we  learn,  and  the  past  informs  the 
future.  What  one  man  has  done,  three  men  like  ns 
can  do,  and  more. ' ' 

Puig  folded  his  fists  in  the  lap  of  his  leather  apron, 
and  stared. 

**What  do  you  mean?"  he  demanded  sceptically. 

'*I  mean,''  replied  the  lazy  giant,  brushing  his  hat, 
**I  mean  what  I  said  before,  it's  a  practical  matter. 
The  thing  can  be  pulled  off.  Let's  have  a  run  for 
your  plate." 

Jackdabos  Jumped  like  a  frog. 

* '  Hurray ! "  he  cried.    ' '  Come  on ! " 


26  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

The  smith  rose  awkwardly,  stretched,  removed  his 
apron,  rolled  up  his  tools  inside  it,  flung  the  water 
from  his  bucket,  and  with  the  grim  look  of  a  man  in 
a  hurry,  seemed  ready  to  break  camp  and  start  at 
once  on  their  enterprise. 

*  *  Wait,  though ! ' '  He  struck  his  freckled  forehead 
with  impatience.  '*Here  stands  this  beastly  white 
ass  to  be  called  for.  I  must  wait  till  the  owner 
comes." 

He  glanced  angrily  roundabout,  then  toward  the 
Porte  de  la  Gardette.    His  face  brightened. 

*'Ah!"  he  snorted,  with  a  gesture  of  relief.  "Pat 
on  the  hour!    Here  she  comes,  now.'' 


CHAPTER  III 

WAYFARERS 

** A  wonder!"  jeered  Puig.  **See!  A  woman  ar- 
rives on  time.'* 

From  the  stone  stairway  by  the  guardian's  myste- 
rious little  cavern  house,  two  persons  were,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  arriving:  a  straight  young  man  in  very 
worldly  tramping  costume,  belted  and  knickerbock- 
ered,  and  by  his  side  a  girl  in  blue-gray  homespun, 
who  carried  a  rattan  stick. 

**You  mean,''  said  Barjavel,  rising,  **a  lady.  That 
is  nothing  wonderful.  A  lady  values  her  word.  There 
are  many  words,  but  few  ladies.  Am  I  not  right. 
Jackdaw?" 

The  Jackdaw  gasped,  overcome  with  surprise  and 
embarrassment.  As  the  two  strangers  came  near,  he 
bowed,  and  was  rewarded  with  a  friendly  though 
timid  glance  from  that  pair  of  sea-blue  eyes  which  he 
had  praised.  The  belted  hero — a  blond  youth,  plainly 
the  girl's  brother — gave  him  an  ice-cold  stare,  before 
demanding : 

27 


28  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

''Well?    Got  the  animal  shod,  have  youV* 

Puig  removed  his  villainous  cap,  answered  in  a  flow 
of  polite  words,  and,  stooping,  lifted  the  hoofs  of  the 
ass  one  by  one. 

''You  see?  We  have  done  a  serious  piece  of  work. 
I  hope  the  lady  is  content?'' 

"Humph!*'  said  her  brother,  purse  in  hand. 
"Here's  your  money.' 

An  umpire,  had  one  stood  by,  might  have  called 
the  shoer  of  the  ass  more  courteous  than  the  owners. 
Perhaps  the  girl  had  some  such  thought,  for  she 
smiled  at  Puig,  and,  stooping  beside  him,  carefully 
inspected  the  little  iron  rims. 

"Thank  you,  monsieur.  They  are  beautifully  put 
on." 

Puig,  appeased  by  the  word  "monsieur,"  grinned 
like  a  lynx.  It  was  to  the  girl  that  he  bowed,  even 
while  her  brother  dropped  a  silver  coin  into  his  black- 
ened paw,  saying : 

"Come,  Ruth,  we  must  be  off." 

She  turned  obediently,  but  not  before  the  great 
Barjavel  could  pay  her  a  compliment. 

' '  Mademoiselle. ' '  He  had  the  best  manners  of  them 
all,  careless  good  manners;  for  both  words  and  ges- 
ture came  direct  from  the  heart.  "You  make  my 
friend's  work  a  pleasure.  It  is  not  child's  play  to 
shape  and  fit  such  tiny  shoes.  You  have  seen  this, 
mademoiselle,  and,  therefore,  you  give  him  the  best 


WAYFARERS  29 

praise — praise  from  one  who  looks,  and  sees,  and 
understands/' 

Barjavel  beamed  down  at  her  like  a  loving  but 
highly  critical  father.  Puig  stood  bobbing  with  de- 
light. As  for  the  poor  Jackdaw,  he  had  withdrawn 
a  pace  under  the  vaulted  arch,  and  studied  their  by- 
play sadly,  alone,  aloof,  and  dejected. 

'*Come  along,  Ruth,*'  repeated  the  girl's  brother 
sharply,  as  he  unhitched  the  head-rope  of  the  scar- 
let bridle  from  the  ring,  and  led  their  donkey  clatter- 
ing out  upon  the  cobblestones.  **Much  obliged  to 
you  all,  of  course." 

This  time,  however,  his  sister  proved  not  quite  so 
docile.  Holding  her  ground,  she  prolonged  the  talk 
for  kindness*  sake. 

'*Our  poor  beast  will  be  grateful,''  she  said.  "We 
came  a  long  way  from  beyond  Montpellier,  and  have 
still  far  to  go.  Many  thanks  for  your  careful  re- 
pairs." She  gave  a  nod  and  a  smile,  which  suddenly 
included  Jackdabos,  toward  whom  lifting  her  rattan 
with  a  quick,  unconscious  grace,  she  added:  **I  sha'n't 
forget  the  magician  of  Pharaoh,  who  made  my  stick 
do  me  reverence." 

Then,  as  though  frightened,  she  was  away.  Be- 
tween her  and  her  brother,  the  white  ass  ambled  across 
the  pavement,  slow  and  submissive,  with  a  rope  of  tail 
swinging  patiently  to  the  clink  of  the  new  shoes. 
The  girl's  hair  glistened  in  the  sunlight  as  she  went 


30  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

talking  and  laughing.  Her  brother  shook  his  head, 
and  blurted  out  reproof. 

''IVe  told  you,  time  and  time  again!  You  must 
not  go  chumming  with  such  people.  They  can't  un- 
derstand it.  .  .  ." 

**Why,  Ralph,''  she  rejoined.  *'What  else  did  we 
come  to  see  but  ..." 

Her  voice  died  away  in  the  distance.  The  belted 
youth,  turning  a  handsome,  angry,  Antinoiis  profile, 
scolded  her  over  the  donkey's  ears;  and  so,  arguing 
in  pantomime,  brother  and  sister  led  their  slow-footed 
beast  round  the  corner,  and  disappeared. 

After  they  had  gone,  the  farrier  and  his  two  friends 
remained  still  watching  the  comer.  Puig  was  first 
man  to  speak.  He  provoked  the  Jackdaw  with  a  jeer- 
ing glance  and  a  chuckle. 

**Did  a  little  magic  for  her,  did  you?  Clever  boy. 
What  kind?" 

Jackdabos  turned  red  as  leather. 

*'Say  one  word  more  like  that "  he  began, 

stammering  with  wrath. 

Barjavel  laid  his  broad  hand  on  the  boy's  shoul- 
der, as  if  by  chance. 

''Well,"  he  sighed,  in  deep  soliloquy,  gazing  at  the 
corner,  "well,  we  really  lost  something,  you  know, 
when  she  took  the  light  of  her  eyes  away.  Ah,  me, 
the  world!    Come,"  he  cried,  catching  each  man  by 


WAYFARERS  31 

an  arm,  ''let's  not  repine.  Come,  leave  our  tools  with 
daddy/' 

And  laughing,  he  pushed  them  away  from  the  vault. 

**Look  here,  though,"  objected  Puig,  while  he  lifted 
his  apronful  of  tools,  and  the  Jackdaw  caught  up 
anvil  and  bucket — ^**look  here.  Why  does  a  beauty 
like  that  girl,  and  a  gilded  snob  who's  nothing  but 
rhomme  chic,  go  mucking  round  amongst  our  kind, 
on  foot,  with  a  hairy  old  she-ass?  It  ain't  natural. 
What 's  their  game  ?    Tell  me. ' ' 

Barjavel  the  giant  laughed  again,  and  swept  his 
arm  generously  along  the  picture  of  their  surround- 
ings— the  ancient  yellow-gray  walls,  the  Tower  of 
Constance  looming  against  the  sunlight,  the  garish- 
colored  fronts  of  house  and  shop  across  the  way. 

''Romance!"  he  chanted.  "How  can  I  explain? 
Nobody  can.  Nobody  knows."  He  played  thought- 
fully with  a  broad  piece  of  silver.  "I  suppose  this 
pair,  though,  this  Ralph  and  his  sister,  are  travelling 
in  a  vain  attempt  to  see  what  they  have  read  in  books. 
Yes,  probably.  A  Scotchman  whose  name  I  forget 
once  led  a  donkey  round  the  Cevennes,  then  wrote 
about  himself  and  his  donkey.  It  was  a  dainty,  pleas- 
ant book,  which  made  ass-driving  romantic.  Hence, 
our  young  friends  to-day  are  trudging  after — after 
what? — something  which  it  is  not  in  them  to  find, 
poor  children," 


32  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

Puig  started  on  to  cross  the  road,  nodding  his  head, 
well  satisfied. 

''You're  right,"  he  agreed.  ''They'll  try  to  do 
the  same.  They'll  put  us  low-lives  into  print,  and 
make  us  fashionable.  I  understand,  now.  She's  a 
pretty  girl,  but  like  all  the  rest  of  'em  she  has  an 
oblong  brain.  Ah,  bah !  The  brain  sharp  as  a  brick, 
entirely  oblong." 

This  piece  of  slang  gave  so  great  offence  to  Jack- 
dabos,  that  he  not  only  ran  after  Puig,  but  seemed 
ready  to  drop  the  anvil  and  fight  him  in  the  middle 
of  the  street.  The  peace-making  colossus,  however, 
shoved  them  both  ahead  with  irresistible  good  nature, 
and  so  into  the  Cafe  of  the  Universe. 

There  sat  daddy  in  his  black  coat  behind  the  zinc 
bar. 

"Good  day,  my  sons,"  he  chirped,  out  of  the  per- 
petual dusk  surrounding  his  throne.  "What  is  the 
row?    You  are  assassinated?" 

Barjavel  flung  his  money  on  the  zinc. 

"Three  of  the  same.  Father,  for  three  bad,  thirsty 
boys.  "We  are  off  to  Aries.  Kindly  put  Puigo's  batch 
of  tools  in  a  sterilized  place  till  we  return." 

A  moment  later  the  three  friends  were  outdoors 
again,  ready  for  the  road.  Jackdabos  carried  over 
his  shoulder  an  old  canvas  bag,  well  stuffed.  He 
marched  with  a  light,  rolling  swing,  foot  over  foot 
on  a  straight  line,  as  a  cat  walks  a  fence  or  a  man 


WAYFARERS  33 

walks  in  moccasins.  Puig  went  slouching,  baggy  and 
loose-kneed,  with  toes  turned  out,  and  fists  crammed 
into  pockets.  Great  Barjavel,  who  overtopped  them 
both,  strode  along  jauntily,  humming  deep  in  his  chest, 
canting  his  head  from  shoulder  to  shoulder,  with  lazy, 
half -shut  eyes  twinkling  on  the  world.  No  one  tried 
to  keep  step ;  and  the  brindle  dog  slunk  behind  them, 
abject  and  stealthy,  as  though  afraid  of  being  sent 
home  when  he  had  no  home  on  earth. 

"  *Vigni-vignons,  vignons  le  vin. 
La  voild,  la  jolV  vigne  au  vin, 
La  voild,  la  joW  vigne!'  " 

The  giant  ceased  his  humming,  to  stick  a  red  clay 
pipe  into  his  beard,  then  struck  a  match  on  the  town 
gate,  and  said,  puffing  lustily : 

*' Great  things  are  before  us.  I  feel  my  old  bones 
coming  to  life  again. ' ' 

So  with  a  fair  start  they  passed  from  under  the 
rampart  shadow  to  the  open  country.  Before  them  a 
hard  gray  road  stretched  monotonous,  unpromising, 
far  across  flat  fields  toward  the  flat  Camargue.  For 
several  miles  they  tramped  in  silence,  briskly  and 
doggedly;  but  when  at  Silvereal  they  were  ferried 
across  the  sad  brown  flood  of  the  Lesser  Rhone,  and 
had  hauled  on  the  ferryman's  cable  to  help  him,  their 
tongues  were  loosened  again,  and  with  pleasant  loiter- 


34  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

ing  and  gossip  they  stepped  ashore  on  the  Camargue 
itself.  Over  that  plain,  that  strange  **land  of  the 
white  horse  and  the  black  bull/'  the  afternoon  sun- 
shine wasted  its  last  brightness.  Though  touched 
with  pale  green  spring-time,  earth  remained  dismal, 
tranquil,  and  vast,  unrolled  as  a  mere  base  for  the  sky 
and  the  long,  distant  ranges  of  gleaming  clouds. 

'*But  that's  all  right,''  sighed  Barjavel,  content- 
edly. *' Weariness  underfoot;  and  overhead,  the  un- 
attainable." 

Jackdabos  turned,  with  a  startled  air. 

**Do  you  think  those  things,  too?"  he  cried,  as  if 
wonderstruck.    *'I  never  knew  anybody  else  did." 

**Ah,  my  boy,"  laughed  the  other,  *'you  are  very 
young!" 

Puig,  who  hated  such  talk,  lounged  along  in  surly 
meditation.  Against  the  all-pervading  odor  of  vine- 
yard phosphate  he  screwed  up  his  nose  and  mous- 
tache into  a  twist,  so  that  he  walked  perpetually 
sneering.    From  a  long  silence  he  broke  out: 

**That  young  man  in  the  passion-coat,  him  and  his 
sister,  they're  too  much  for  me!  What  do  the  fools 
expect,  tramping  a  desert  like  this,  keeping  time  to 
a  donkey's  hind  legs?  Fools.  That's  what  I  say, 
a  pair  of  fools." 

**And  what,"  murmured  Barjavel,  '*do  we  three 
fools  expect?" 

Puig  had  a  superior  grunt  and  an  answer  ready. 


WAYFARERS  35 

"One  jolly  gold  plate/'  said  he,  with  gusto.  **A 
piece  of  Cellini  plate  worth  all  the  colored  bank- 
notes you  can  cram  in  your  pockets,  eh?  Thirty 
years  it's  waited  for  us  in  Goiffon's  garden,  two 
metres  from  the  cornermost  orange  tree  toward  the 
northwest.  Is  that  clear,  or  not?  Come!  Do  you 
often  catch  me  mooning  ?  Is  my  name  Philibert  Puig  ? 
Am  I  talking  vapors?'* 

Barjavel  smoked  his  red  clay  calmly,  humming, 
and  rolling  his  head. 

''Nevertheless,  we  are  fools,  too,  my  dear,"  he  re- 
plied. *'A  garden,  since  Adam,  is  the  spot  where  one 
digs.  Thirty  years  of  digging  will  uncover  many 
strange  things.  Ah,  yes.  And  then  sometimes  a 
gardener  cuts  down  his  orange  tree,  if  it  has  failed. 
Thirty  years,  my  friend.    Time,  time  is  our  enemy." 

Puig  halted,  stared  gloomily  at  his  companions, 
then  cursed  himself  and  them. 

"Espece  de  puant!*'  he  snarled.  **You  are  right. 
The  place  will  be  dug  from  end  to  end,  so  what's  the 
good  of  travelling  farther?" 

The  giant  only  nodded,  sagacious  as  before. 

''Trust  me,  Puig,"  said  he,  thumbing  his  pipe. 
"Trust  me  and  hoof  it  along  to  Aries.  We  are  all 
fools,  but  all  follow  some  kind  of  hope.  Am  I  not 
right,  Jackdaw?  Time  is  our  enemy,  hope  is  our 
friend,  and  the  life  of  an  old  hat  is  to  cock  it.  Come ! 
Follow  me  on  the  road  to  Aries." 


36  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

*' Right  you  are,"  sang  the  Jackdaw,  shifting  his 
old  canvas  bag.  **No  odds  to  me  whe-re  I  go,  now. 
Forward." 

*'No!"  cried  the  crestfallen  blacksmith.  **Why 
make  a  bad  matter  worse?  Let's  go  back  where  my 
tools  are."  He  pointed  toward  the  declining  sun. 
**Dug  up  or  not,  that  garden " 

** Trust  me,"  Barjavel  repeated. 

He  spoke,  and  his  eyes  shone,  with  good-natured 
but  mysterious  authority. 

** Humph!"  snorted  Puig,  and  surrendered. 

They  marched  on  again.  Through  the  sad  but 
marvellous  plain  their  trio  of  shadows,  longer  and 
longer,  drew  them  northeastward  on  the  gray  road. 
Vineyards,  acres  of  bare  soil  quilted  with  knotty 
stumps;  broad  floors  of  well-sprouting  grain;  then 
empty  pastures,  whitened  in  long  streaks  by  sansouiro 
salt  marsh :  these  and  the  reddening  clouds  brought  a 
few  slow  changes  in  the  journey.  Sometimes  a  troop 
of  horses  or  cattle  beaded  the  horizon,  and  gradually 
hung  clear  of  the  earth,  suspended  by  mirage  over  a 
glassy  line  of  air.  Sometimes  a  farmhouse  appeared 
among  willows  or  stone  pines — ^humble  masonry  half- 
buried  by  golden  thatch,  and  stabbed  in  its  ridgepole 
with  the  hilt,  all  askew,  of  the  holy  cross.  Sunset 
blazed,  glorified  all  these  things,  and  slowly  faded. 

''Supper!"  cried  Jackdabos,  halting,  and  pulling 


WAYFARERS  37 

from  his  bag  three  loaves  of  bread,  a  parcel  of  cold 
meat,  a  wine  bottle.    **I  am  hungry/' 

They  ate  in  a  shelter  of  tamarisks  by  the  road,  and 
saw  the  world  become  a  shadow,  above  which  in  the 
twilight  went  winging  a  flight  of  red  flamingoes,  like 
birds  on  flre  from  the  sunset.  Afterward,  the  moon 
peered  over  a  rim  of  undulating  blackness.  The  trav- 
ellers went  northward,  threading  the  gloom  by  fairy 
light. 

**What,''  complained  Puig  at  last,  **are  you  going 
to  do  for  us  up  here?  Does  this  ramble  fetch  us 
nearer  to  any  gold  plates?*' 

It  was  after  midnight  when  he  put  this  question. 
The  moon,  riding  aloft,  showed  in  the  distance  a 
cluster  of  blanched  walls  and  dark  windows,  the 
houses  of  Trinquetaille. 

**I  shall  introduce  you,'*  replied  Barjavel,  'Ho  a 
nice  old  lady.  She  knows  all  about  such  things,  and 
what  chance  we  stand  of  good  fortune.'' 

**Bah!"  said  Puig  in  disgust.  ** Fortune-telling? 
Don't  be  an  ass,  or  think  that  I'm  one." 

Jackdabos  also  muttered  something  of  disappoint- 
ment. 

Their  huge  leader  smiled,  and  beckoned  them  far- 
ther on  the  white  stillness  of  the  road.  They  fol- 
lowed, mute  and  disheartened.  The  dog  stole  after 
them  like  a  ghostly  wolf.  So  they  passed  among  the 
sleeping  houses  in  Trinquetaille,  came  where  the  Great 


I 


38  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

Rhone  coursed  like  liquid  snow,  and  saw  beyond  it 
the  roofs,  the  towers  and  spires,  the  Roman  circus 
rearing  its  mound  on  shadowy  arches — ^the  city  of 
the  sixth  legion,  Aries,  quietly  dreaming  in  strong 
moonlight. 

''Don't  sneer  at  my  old  lady,"  murmured  Barjavel. 
"If  she  tells  our  fortune,  it  will  come  true.  It  will 
be  told  for  love." 


CHAPTER  IV 


THE  LIGURIAN  LADY 


By  Trinquetaille  Bridge  they  crossed  the  snow- 
white  river,  their  tired  steps  lagging  with  a  hollow 
Bound  on  the  footway.  Barjavel,  a  man  with  a  pur- 
pose, led  them  straight  through  the  moon-lighted 
Place  Antonelle,  then,  turning  to  the  left,  threaded 
a  labyrinth  of  narrow  streets  and  lanes  choked  with 
black  shadow.  They  moved  like  burglars,  and  seem^ed 
the  only  creatures  alive  in  Aries. 

'*Know  where  you're  going?*'  growled  Puig. 

'*Yes.  To  bed,"  answered  their  guide.  ** Unless 
you  prefer  sleeping  among  the  tombs  in  the  Alis- 
camps?" 

Jackdabos  gave  a  chuckle. 

"Not  good  enough,''  said  he.  '*Many  a  time  I've 
slept  there  with  my  nose  to  the  moon,  but  I  don't  love 
that  crowd.  Sarcophagi  make  devilish  hard  beds, 
and  cold,  with  the  dust  of  dead  men  under  you. 
BrrrI" 

39 


40  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

''Follow  me,  then/'  said  Barjavel.  *'And  please 
be  quiet. ' ' 

He  felt  his  way  along  another  walled  alley,  stop- 
ped at  the  shadowy  likeness  of  a  gate,  and  fumbling 
and  jingling  in  his  pocket  brought  out  keys.  A  mo- 
ment later  the  trio  stood  inside  a  small,  disorderly 
courtyard ;  then,  stumbling  over  rubbish,  they  gained 
the  back  door  of  a  tall  house,  dark  to  the  slant  shadow 
of  the  wall,  but  its  upper  storey  all  out-staring  the 
moon  with  cold,  sparkling  windows. 

**In  here/'  whispered  Barjavel,  as  he  unlocked  an- 
other door.  *'Take  off  your  boots.  No  talking.  I 
have  my  key  to  go  and  come,  but  on  condition  that 
I  'm  not  too  uproarious. ' ' 

They  slipped  into  the  house.  By  the  smell  of  in- 
grained cookery,  Jackdabos  knew  that  he  stood  in  a 
kitchen.  Immediately,  boots  in  hand,  they  mounted 
a  dark  staircase,  then  another,  then  along  corridors 
where  the  dog's  toe-nails  clattered  upon  tiles.  At  last 
Barjavel  opened  a. door,  and  let  his  companions  enter 
a  great  room  glimmering  with  reflected  moonshine. 

* '  Good  night, ' '  he  whispered.  '  *  Twin  beds  for  you. 
I'm  next  door.    See  you  in  the  morning." 

So  saying,  the  giant  vanished.  Puig,  his  dog,  and 
the  Jackdaw  stood  in  the  middle  of  their  floor,  con- 
sidering one  another.  It  was  a  noble  room,  spacious 
and  lofty,  with  two  windows  open  on  treetops. 


THE  LIGURIAN  LADY  41 

''Where  are  we  now?'^  said  Puig  loudly.  *'What 
palace  has  old  Belshazzar  brought  us  to?*' 

*  *  Shut  up ! "  hissed  the  Jackdaw.  *  *  He  told  us  not 
to  talk,  and  who  cares  where  we  are  ?  Good  night,  old 
man.'* 

He  shuffled  off  his  clothes,  left  them  coiled  on  the 
floor,  and  slipped  with  a  magnificent  yawn  into  a  bed 
of  cool,  clean-smelling  linen.  The  last  thing  he  saw 
was  Puig's  silhouette  leaning  cherub-like  on  a  win- 
dow ledge,  considering  some  moonlight  mystery  below, 
and  drinking  thoughtfully  now  and  then  from  a  bot- 
tle. The  last  thing  he  heard  was  Puig's  dog  snoring 
in  a  corner.  Then  he  slid  into  another  world — a 
thrilling  world  yet  forlorn  with  enchantment,  because 
the  happiness  was  not  real — ^where  a  white  donkey 
plodded  beside  him,  and  a  dream  woman,  young,  with 
sea-blue  eyes,  looked  ineffable  kindness.  He  tried  to 
say  something  vast,  on  which  his  welfare  and  hers 
hung  trembling ;  but  it  would  not  out,  and  before  he 
could  force  it  into  utterance,  the  donkey's  ears  di- 
vided them  forever,  flapping,  growing  monstrous,  and 
at  last  revolving  like  windmill  arms  in  a  gale.  He 
had  lost  her.  The  vision  ended  bitterly  in  the  dry 
dust  of  ages. 

When  he  woke,  the  room  shone  full  of  morning  sun. 
At  his  feet  on  his  coverlet  sat  Puig,  waiting,  and 
watching  him  curiously. 


42  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

"Know  where  you  are?*'  demanded  Puig,  as 
thoiigli  they  had  never  been  asleep. 

Jackdabos  lay  blinking  and  listening.  The  cool, 
bright  morning  touched  with  glossy  reflections  a  red 
tiled  floor,  and  fine  old  furniture  of  which  every  con- 
tour shone  polished  and  colored  like  a  violin.  Peace, 
order,  cleanliness  reigned  in  that  chamber;  and 
through  the  windows  poured  an  agreeable  sound, 
never  stopping,  never  changing,  but  always  novel  and 
musical,  one  yet  manifold  as  the  waters  of  a  brook. 

*'Is  it  Sunday?''  yawned  the  Jackdaw.  ''If  it  is, 
I'd  bet  we  were  in  the  Forum." 

Puig  let  the  subject  pass,  and  fired  another  ques- 
tion. His  cat-green  eyes  watched  close  for  the  an- 
swer. 

*'How  long  have  you  known  Barjavel?" 

Jackdabos  yawned  again. 

' '  As  long  as  you  have, ' '  he  replied,  stretching.  '  *  A 
week,  isn't  it?  Never  saw  him  before  we  all  met  down 
yonder." 

*'No  more  than  that?"  Puig  stared  with  infinite 
suspicion. 

*  *  No  more,  no  less. ' '  Jackdabos  began  to  stare  like- 
wise.   '  *  What 's  wrong  ? ' ' 

The  other  tossed  him  a  sheet  of  note-paper. 

* '  Eead  this, ' '  he  snapped.  ' '  Found  it  on  that  chest 
of  drawers  with  the  mirror,  there." 

The  young  man  rubbed  his  eyes  and  read. 


THE  LIGURIAN  LADY  43 

**  Received  of  Monsieur  Barjavel,"  ran  the  brief 
manuscript,  **full  payment  of  the  rent  of  his  cham- 
bers for  three  months  ..." 

The  sum  was  princely,  acknowledged  with  fitting 
thanks,  compliments,  and  the  flourished  signature  of 
a  hotel-keeper.  Jackdabos  rubbed  his  eyes  again, 
read  again,  and  sat  bolt  upright. 

*  *  Tiny  Saviour ! ' '  he  exclaimed.  *  *  Bar  javel  paid  all 
that?    What  a  sum!" 

Puig  nodded  grimly  from  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

**Just  so,"  he  growled.  *'But  look  here.  Who  is 
this  Barjavel  of  ours?  He  never  has  mjoney,  eh? 
Travels  on  foot,  eh?  Couldn't  buy  a  third-class  ticket 
for  the  train :  made  us  hoof  it  all  night.  Eh?  What  ? 
How?  And  still  he  carries  a  private  key  to  the  best 
hotel,  and  hires  a  set  of  rooms  in  the  heart  of  town. 
Go  look." 

Jackdabos  bounced  from  bed  and  ran  to  the  nearer 
window. 

** Heavenly  cabbage!"  he  cried.  ''You're  right. 
I  was  right.    It's  the  Place  of  the  Men." 

Below  him  lay  the  Forum,  a  pleasant  square  sur- 
rounded by  leafy  plane-trees,  and  crowded  from  end 
to  end  with  honest  men,  good  plain  men  wearing 
their  Sunday  clothes.  Their  talk  it  was,  the  lively, 
ceaseless  music  of  Provence,  which  rose  from  half  a 
hundred  little  groups  and  went  on  and  on  like  run- 
nels of  a  brook.    A  few  soldiers  and  police  moved 


44  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

among  them,  fraternally.  Mistral  the  poet,  in  bronze, 
looked  over  them  with  neighborly  pride  from  his 
sculptured  pedestal.  Their  voices  made  as  it  were 
incense  round  his  statue,  in  the  plane-tree  light  and 
shade. 

*'Aha,  the  beautiful  Sunday!''  said  Jackdabos. 
''Oho,  the  good  fellows!'' 

And  he  leaned  forth  naked  as  a  god,  sniffing  the  air, 
drinking  deeply  the  sound  of  their  talk. 

''But  come  here,"  persisted  Puig,  hauling  him  in- 
doors again.  ''That's  all  very  well.  We're  living 
in  hotel  rooms  on  the  Forum.  Good !  But  Bar javel 
pays  our  bill,  eh?"  He  shook  the  mysterious  receipt 
under  the  Jackdaw's  nose.  "Now  tell  me.  Who  is 
Bar  javel?    How  does  this  happen?" 

Somebody  just  then  knocked  at  the  door. 

*'Come!"  called  the  Jackdaw. 

The  door  opened,  and  in  walked  Bar  javel  himself. 
Two  waiters  followed  him,  bearing  trays  with  coffee, 
golden-crusted  croissants,  and  glass  pots  of  honey. 

"Good  morning!"  sang  Bar  javel.  He  came  smil- 
ing, greatly  refreshed  and  rejuvenated,  his  beard  well 
trimmed,  his  old  black  clothes  brushed  clean  of  travel- 
stains.  "I  heard  you  talking,  and  ordered  breakfast 
for  you.    It's  not  too  early?" 

Puig  beat  a  guilty  retreat  from  the  dressing-table, 
too  late.  He  was  caught  replacing  the  tell-tale  paper. 
Jackdabos  rushed  for  his  clothes. 


THE  LIGURIAN  LADY  45 

''There's  no  hurry/'  Barjavel  ignored  their  con- 
fusion. **IVe  already  breakfasted;  but  let  me  sit 
down  at  your  table?"  He  saw  that  the  trays  were 
properly  arranged,  then  dismissed  the  bowing  wait- 
ers.   **Have  you  slept  well,  boys?" 

Breakfast  was  a  good  meal  spoiled  by  constraint. 
Puig  sat  on  nettles,  waiting  to  be  accused ;  Jackdabos 
became  aware  for  the  first  time  that  Puig  had  vile, 
sticky  manners  at  table;  still,  they  ate  and  talked, 
while  Barjavel  smoked  a  cigarette,  fed  the  dog,  and 
entertained  them  benignly.  When  the  stream  of  Pro- 
vengal  voices  from  the  Forum  was  at  last  running 
dry,  they  rose  all  three  and  made  ready  to  depart. 

/'I've  got  no  business  in  a  hotel,"  declared  the 
Jackdaw,  smoothing  his  bedraggled  brown  velveteen. 

** Don't  be  vain,"  said  their  host.  **Come  on. 
Cheer-oh.    Leave  your  bag  here." 

He  herded  them  along  red-tiled  corridors,  down 
two  flights,  and  through  a  lobby  from  which  a  visored 
porter  set  them  free,  louting  low,  as  if  he  saw  nothing 
strange  about  them  or  their  dog.  They  passed  into 
the  Place  of  the  Men,  a  leafy  place  now  almost  vacant 
at  the  approach  of  noonday. 

**Whoo!"  Jackdabos  vented  a  sigh  of  liberty. 
**It's  better  outdoors." 

Barjaval  nodded,  and  pulled  his  black  felt  hat  to 
an  arrogant  pitch. 


46  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

''Great  deal  better/'  he  agreed.  ''How  do  you 
like  this  bronze  Mistral  up  hereT' 

Jackdabos  regarded  the  familiar  statue  as  they 
passed  below  it. 

"Well  enough,"  he  replied.  "Looks  too  much  like 
Buffalo  Bill.  I  could  make  as  good  ones  if  I  had  a 
workshop. ' ' 

"And  metal/'  added  Puig  sourly.  "Metal  costs 
money." 

Barjavel  surprised  them  by  showing  emotion. 

"No!"  He  halted,  and  stared  fixedly  down  at  the 
irreverent  Jackdaw.    ' '  No,  could  you  ? ' ' 

It  seemed  an  idle  question,  but  he  considered  it 
deeply  in  silence,  beard  on  bosom,  while  they 
wandered  through  a  succession  of  narrow  streets. 
Contemplation  of  the  Jackdaw's  boast,  indeed,  made 
him  forget  nearer  matters ;  for  suddenly  halting,  he 
snapped  his  fingers,  muttered  a  "Pshaw!"  at  his  own 
absence  of  mind,  turned  about  face,  and  led  them 
back  to  a  door  which  they  had  already  admired  in 
passing.  It  was  a  fine  old  door  between  a  pair  of 
twisted  dolphin  columns.  Aloft  in  the  house-front 
a  niche  contained  two  fragmentary  stone  saints,  gray, 
weatherworn,  and  both  for  their  harmless  piety  be- 
headed long  ago  by  some  revolutionist  fool.  Curved 
iron  bars  guarded  the  street  windows.  Puig,  nod- 
ding approval,  fingered  the  graceful  lines  of  this 
iron-work.     Jackdabos   patted   the   stone   dolphins. 


THE  LIGURIAN  LADY  47 

Barjavel  whipped  from  his  pocket  a  card  on  which, 
holding  it  against  the  door,  he  pencilled  a  few  lines ; 
and  then,  to  his  friends*  amazement,  he  lifted  the 
great  iron  knocker  and  rapped  loudly  twice. 

''Hold  on!*'  cried  the  others.  **What  are  you  do- 
mgV 

The  door  swung  open,  and  a  grave,  dark  man-ser- 
vant, looking  out,  seemed  ready  to  repeat  this  ques- 
tion. 

**Good  day,"  said  Barjavel.  **What  a  beautiful 
door  it  is  your  pleasure  to  keep  !*' 

The  man-servant  regarded  them  all  three  with  dis- 
favor. 

"No  doubt,''  he  cooed  like  an  ironical  dove,  '*no 
doubt  monsieur  is  an  adept  of  such  beauties. '  * 

He  began  to  close  this  one,  when  Barjavel  laughed 
and  poked  his  card  through  the  lessening  gap.  No 
sooner  had  the  man  spied  the  writing,  than  his  dark 
face  grew  convulsed  with  wonder,  and  he  flung  the 
door  wide  open. 

*'0h,  it  is *'  he  cried,  abasing  himself  and  star- 
ing. **Come  in,  sir  .  .  .  forgive  me  ...  I  beg  .  .  . 
I  did  not  know  .  .  ." 

He  bowed  them  in,  fluttering  with  a  kind  of  joyful 
submission.  They  left  Puig's  brindle  dog  sitting  dis- 
consolate by  the  dolphin  pillars,  and  entered  the 
house.  A  cool,  dark  vestibule  opened  on  a  pleasant 
room  which  ran  the  full  depth  of  the  house.    Here 


48  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

the  servant  left  them  standing  by  the  front  window, 
contemplating  a  vista  of  mahogany,  marble^  and 
dnsky  painted  pictures.  At  one  rear  window  the  sun- 
shine joggled  in  a  large  bowl  of  swimming  gold- 
fish. 

*'Hell,''  muttered  Puig,  scuffing  his  feet  and  look- 
ing round  bashfully,  **I  never  asked  you  to  bring 
me  here.'' 

A  trundling  noise  interrupted  his  complaint,  as  into 
the  room  at  the  sunlit  end  came  the  man-servant, 
pushing  a  wheeled  chair  in  which  sat  a  little,  frail,-, 
dark  lady. 

*  *  Enough.    Thank  you, '  *  she  sighed. 

The  servant  halted  her  chair  near  the  gold-fish 
bowl,  and  left  the  room.  She  reclined  with  patient 
dignity,  like  a  Roman  matron,  eyed  her  visitors  pen- 
sively for  a  moment ;  then,  lifting  one  hand  from  her 
lap,  made  a  civil  gesture  with  a  card — Barjavers 
card. 

**My  old  friend,  you  are  welcome,"  she  declared, 
in  a  low,  silvery  voice.  **What  you  have  written 
prevents  me  from  saying  how  very  welcome,  and 
why.  But  that  is  understood.  You  leave  me,  there- 
fore, only  the  pleasure  of  asking,  in  what  can  I  serve 
your' 

Barjavel  strode  forward  into  the  light,  bowed  over 
her  chair-wheels,  and  briefly  named  his  two  com- 


THE  LIGURIAN  LADY  49 

panions.     The  lady's  black  eyes  sparkled  at  them. 
She  nodded  kindly. 

**I  have  informed  these  young  men/*  explained  the 
giant,  *'that  you  know  everything.'' 

They  bowed. 

**We  are  adventurers  who  need  your  help.  Will 
you  please  tell  us,"  he  continued,  *' whether  Mon- 
sieur Goiffon's  garden  still  has  the  orange  trees  which 
flourished  there  some  years  ago?" 

The  question  puzzled  her  for  a  moment. 

**You  ask  me?  You?"  she  exclaimed,  knitting  her 
brows  at  Barjavel.  *'No.  Indeed,  no.  His  orange 
trees  were  all  cut  down  before  the  garden — passed 
to  its  present  owner.  I  believe  new  trees  were 
planted." 

'*I  feared  so,"  he  replied,  nodding.  '*I  could  not 
remember.  But  was  there  not  a  map  drawn  by  Mon- 
sieur Goiffon — a  map  or  plan  of  the  garden  as  it 
stood  in  his  day?" 

The  lady  raised  a  frail  hand  to  her  forehead,  and 
thought. 

*  *  There  was,  my  dear, ' '  she  answered,  after  a  pause. 
**You  are  right.  There  is  now.  Framed  under  glass, 
a  quaint  little  colored  map  in  the  old  style  .  .  .  just 
such  a  plaything  as  he  took  delight  in.  It  hangs  or 
should  hang  to  this  day,  in  the  Villa  Pervinca." 

She  looked  up,  smiling,  like  one  whose  memory  had 
triumphed. 


50  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

**Ah,  Madam/'  cried  Barjavel,  *'yon  are  as  won- 
derful as  ever.  Was  I  wrong  in  saying  that  you 
know  all  things?''  He  beamed  on  the  company,  ir- 
radiating them.  ''Last  night  my  friends  here,  who 
are  young,  spoke  scornfully  of  gifts  like  yours.  They 
must  admit  you  know  the  past.  Now  do  look  them 
over  and  tell  them  their  futures." 

''Oh,  no!"  laughed  the  lady.  "You  are  the  same 
foolish  boy." 

' '  Oh,  yes,  I  pray  you ! ' '  And  he  beckoned  the  Jack- 
daw and  Puig  to  draw  near. 

They  came  across  the  room,  stood  beside  him,  and 
awaited  further  orders,  the  one  sheepish,  the  other 
highly  expectant,  with  dancing  eyes.  At  close  range 
they  found  the  lady  even  smaller  and  frailer  in  body 
than  she  had  first  appeared,  calm,  almost  apathetic, 
but  wonderfully  alert  in  her  glances.  Plain  black 
silk  she  wore,  with  a  lace  collar.  Her  cheeks  were 
pale  brown;  her  features,  at  once  bold  and  delicate, 
of  the  type  called  Ligurian;  and  while  she  sat  there 
motionless,  the  gold-fish  bowl  cast  a  light  quivering 
over  her  as  though  it  were  the  outward  shine  and  play 
of  her  intelligence.  To  so  much  had  the  Jackdaw 
given  heed,  when  he  found  her  smiling  at  him  and 
saying : 

"You  are  not  the  sceptic,  my  son,  for  in  you  I  see 
plenty  of  faith.  You  are  following  beauty  with  your 
eyes  shut.    When  you  find  her  you  will  follow  with 


THE  LIGURIAN  LADY  51 

yonr  eyes  open,  as  a  man  ought.  She  will  come  to 
you  from  the  past,  from  something  built  in  old  stone- 
work. Sorrow,  too;  yes,  you  cannot  avoid  sorrow. 
But  have  no  fear. ' ' 

She  lifted  her  slender  brown  hand  in  sign  of  en- 
couragement. Jackdabos  made  a  sudden  dart,  quick 
as  a  humming-bird,  and  as  lightly  kissed  the  hand 
before  it  withdrew. 

**Madam!''  he  cried.  **You  can  read  dreams,  even 
a  man's  own  dream!*' 

When  Puig's  turn  came,  the  Ligurian  lady  was 
not  smiling.  She  looked  long  at  the  freckled  black- 
smith, who  returned  her  look  humbly  enough,  but 
steadily,  with  a  dull  patience. 

**You,  sir,''  she  began  in  doubt;  then  sighed,  and 
took  courage.  '*You  must  pardon  the  whims  of  an 
invalid,  a  woman  who  stays  in  her  house  all  day.  We 
think  strange  things;  and  if  I  must  tell  what  I  be- 
lieve of  you — shall  I?"  She  glanced  up  and  round. 
Puig  nodded  consent.  His  companions  did  likewise. 
''Then,"  she  continued  gravely,  her  coal-black  eyes 
looking  clear  through  them  all,  through  the  long 
room,  and,  as  it  were,  out  of  the  house;  ''then  this  is 
what  I  believe.  Sir,  you  will  never  be  happy  till 
you  do  day  labor,  working  hard,  for  a  man  who  beats 
you — ^beats  you  with  tongue  and  fist,  and  conquers 
you.  That  is  the  far  future,  as  I  see  it.  The  near 
future "    She  paused  again;  her  eyes  returned 


52  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

from  their  search  to  meet  Puig^s  green  orbs  bale- 
fully  staring  down  at  her.  "My  friend,  I'm  sorry  to 
say,  there  is  death  in  it.  You  shall  lose  the  one  who 
loves  you  most. ' ' 

Silence  followed  her  words,  and  filled  the  dusky 
room  as  with  a  spell.  Then  Puig  broke  it,  moving 
his  awkward  boots. 

'*Mostr'  He  gave  a  bitter  laugh.  *' Madam,  you 
flatter  me.  There's  no  person  who  loves  my  kind  at 
all;  nobody  would  think  twice  of  me.  Maybe  my 
dog.    He  gets  his  food.    No  one  else.'' 

**I  am  sorry,''  replied  the  dark  lady.  '*What  I 
have  said  .  .  .  But,  perhaps,  it  was  a  sick-room 
fancy,  no  more." 

So  saying,  she  lifted  from  a  taboret  beside  her  a 
bronze  apostle  bell,  and  set  it  jingling  musically.  Her 
quiet  man-servant  answered  the  call,  fetching  a  tray 
with  three  glasses  of  wine.  It  was  the  common  pale- 
rose  wine  of  some  neighboring  vineyard,  but  the  men 
received  it  like  courtiers  honored  by  a  queen. 

"Not  to  my  health,"  she  said  quickly,  as  they  raised 
their  glasses.    *'I  desire  no  health  or  prolongation  of 

days,  as  you "    Her  glance  rested  on  Barjavel, 

with  a  melancholy  smile — ^''as  you  desire  no  fortune. 
Drink,  my  dears,  to  your  adventure." 

When,  after  due  ceremony,  they  filed  outdoors 
again  and  were  half-way  down  the  street,  they  went 
like  people  wrapt  in  a  day-dream.     The  two  older 


THE  LIGUKIAN  LADY  53 

men  moved  slowly,  downcast  and  sombre;  Jackdabos 
walked  on  air ;  and  the  dog,  released  from  his  post  of 
watching  by  the  dolphins,  gambolled  awkwardly 
roundabout  and  was  pushed  away  unregarded. 

**Who  was  she?*'  said  Puig  at  last.  '*How  can  she 
pretend  to  know  so  muchT' 

**Sher'  murmured  Barjavel,  turning  into  a  narrow 
way  which  led  toward  the  P.  L.  M.  station.  ' '  She  is 
Goiff on 's  widow.  You  didn't  know  Goiff on.  He  died 
young,  or  he'd  have  made  a  great  painter.  I  mean 
great.  One  of  that  crowd,  he  was,  who — gods  of 
mankind,  I'm  talking  ancient  history!  They're  all 
dead.  You  can't  remember  the  old  inn  stairs  at 
Gretz." 

While  he  spoke,  a  purring  sound  behind  them 
grew  swiftly  into  a  muffled  roar,  as  like  a  blast  of 
wind  came  whirling  a  low,  gray  monster  that  charged 
and  scattered  them  right  and  left.  They  caught  an 
impression  of  goggling  brass  lamps,  of  a  leather-clad 
puppet  steering,  and  of  complacent  cushioned  women 
lolling,  veiled,  in  a  row.  A  bark  and  a  yell  of  agony 
mingled  in  this  vision.  Then  the  motor-car  was  past, 
flipping  back  some  refuse  from  under  its  wheels — 
twisted  refuse  that  grew  limp  and  straight. 

The  brindle  cur  would  never  gambol  underfoot 
again  to  be  shoved  aside.  He  lay  flat  on  the  road- 
way, dead,  with  a  band  of  dust  across  his  poor,  ugly 
hide. 


54  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

*'0h!''  cried  all  three  men  in  a  wail  of  pity;  the 
beast  had  been  so  exuberant  with  life,  and  now  lay- 
so  clumsy  and  still. 

Puig  stared  for  only  an  instant;  then  his  right 
hand  flew  behind  his  hip,  and  made  a  peculiar  twist- 
ing motion. 

"Je  me  venge!'*  he  cried,  ehoMng.  Bright  steel 
flashed  in  the  noonday  sun.    '^OJi,  je  me  venge!" 

He  leaped  over  the  dead  body,  and,  gripping  a 
naked  knife,  ran  at  full  speed  after  the  monster  of 
gray  metal  that  fled  purring  down  the  narrow  street. 


CHAPTER  V 


LOSSES  BY  THE  WAY 


Jackdabos  crouched  beside  the  dog,  but  only  for 
a  moment.  There  was  nothing  to  do.  No  one,  not 
all  the  king's  horses  and  all  the  king's  men,  could 
be  of  any  service  here.    He  rose,  and  shook  his  head. 

** Malheur!^*  mourned  the  giant. 

At  last'Puig  came  staggering  back  round  the  cor- 
ner, sheathing  his  knife  as  he  came.  Tears  and  sweat 
ran  grossly  down  his  freckled  cheeks.  Panting  and 
sobbing,  he  shook  both  arms  out  rigidly  before  him, 
in  the  gesture  of  a  wild  man. 

**The  cowards  would  not  stop!"  he  blubbered. 
''They  kill  and  run  away,  the  cowards!  They  heard 
me,  the  women  looked  back,  and  they  would  not 
stop!" 

Barjavel  only  nodded. 

'*If  it  were  a  child,  my  dear,"  he  said,  ''it  would 
be  the  same  thing — kill  and  run.  We  mustn't  expect 
to  find  a  heart  inside  that  kind  of  people;  no,  not 
even  a  brain;  nothing  but  food." 

55 


56  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

The  bitterness  of  Ms  tone  acted  as  a  comfort. 
Puig's  arms  dropped  to  his  sides. 

**Yoii're  right/'  he  answered.  Bending  down,  he 
raised  the  poor,  limp  body  from  the  dusty  cobble- 
stones. ''It's  no  good  talking.  Just  leave  me  alone 
now.    Goon.'' 

Jackdabos,  overcome  by  the  sight  of  this  tough  mis- 
anthrope in  tears,  remained  staring  till  Barjavel 
drew  him  away. 

''Meet  us  at  the  Arena  to-night,"  was  all  that  Bar- 
javel said.  "We'll  wait  for  you  by  the  Eond  Point 
stairs." 

The  other  nodded  blindly. 

"Your  old  lady,"  he  called  after  them  as  they  went, 
leaving  him  with  his  brindle  burden  in  his  arms, 
"your  old  lady  speaks  the  truth  altogether  too  well." 

The  Jackdaw  and  his  leader  exchanged  a  wonder- 
ing look,  and  retreated  in  silence.  They  had  not  con- 
sidered this  mishap  as  a  fulfillment  of  prophecy ;  yet 
here  was  a  thing  come  to  pass  without  delay,  brutal, 
outdoor  fact  blundering  on  the  heels  of  sick-room 
fancy. 

"I  never  dreamed  he  was  fond  of  that  dog,"  said 
the  Jackdaw,  when  they  had  rounded  a  comer  out  of 
sight. 

"Men  are  queer,"  rejoined  Barjavel.  "Queer 
beasts  we  are.  Let's  go  hurl  the  missiles  a  while,  eh? 
"We  need  some  diversion." 


LOSSES  BY  THE  WAY  57 

They  strolled  toward  the  Avenue  of  the  Aliscamps, 
accordingly,  and  spent  that  Sunday  afternoon  play- 
ing at  bowls.  In  a  pleasant,  sunken  grove  near  the 
barracks,  they  found  a  crowd  of  soldiers  and  loung- 
ers, as  usual,  rolling  metal  balls  over  the  bare-beaten 
ground.  Jackdabos,  a  champion  at  this  sport,  quickly 
became  a  centre  of  admiration,  for  he  tossed  the  balls 
with  that  inimitable  **back  spin"  which  drops  them 
dead  on  a  given  point.  *'Aha,  the  wizard,"  the  holi- 
day spectators  began  to  murmur;  '* behold  a  player! 
Oh,  marvel,  he  leaves  it  down  as  tidy  as  a  poached 
egg."  Soon  two  jealous  infantrymen  came  forward 
and  offered  a  challenge,  so  that  the  Jackdaw,  with 
Barjavel  as  a  calm  and  crafty  partner,  fought  out  a 
glorious  foursome  which  made  the  tree-tops  ring 
with  its  fame.  The  soldiers  lost,  but  so  stubbornly, 
so  like  a  pair  of  good  fellows,  that  when  the  game 
was  done  Barjavel  treated  them  to  an  early  dinner 
at  the  *'True  Sausage,"  where  before  sunset  they 
quenched  a  well-earned  thirst  with  white  wine  of  St 
Gilles. 

*' Magnificent!  It  is  not  every  day!"  cried  the 
glowing  warriors,  when  their  bugle  called  them  to 
rise  and  run  home.  **We  played  the  best  piece  in 
the  bag,  didn  't  we  ?    To  our  revenge ! ' ' 

Bright  moonlight  transfigured  Aries  before  the 
winners  left  their  coffee  and  climbed  upstairs  toward 


58  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

the  Roman  amphitheatre,  there  to  wait  for  Puig,  as 
they  had  appointed. 

**Do  you  know/'  said  Barjavel,  while  they  paced 
back  and  forth  under  the  curving  bulwark  of  shadow 
reared  by  the  circus,  ''do  you  know.  Jackdaw,  what 
excellent  company  you  are?  Crabbed  age  and  youth, 
and  yet  we  make  a  spanking  team  together.  I  shall  be 
sorry  to  lose  you,  little  old  chap,  even  during  the 
short  time  when  we — ^when  we  must  separate.'' 

' '  Lose  me  ?  Separate  ? ' '  echoed  the  youngster,  halt- 
ing in  dismay.    *'Why  should  we?" 

His  colossal  friend  linked  arms  with  him. 

''Come,  I'll  tell  you  why." 

As  they  paced  onward  together,  a  lonely  form 
came  slouching  under  the  ruined  arches,  met  them, 
passed,  then  wheeled  abruptly,  and  joined  them  with- 
out more  ado.    It  was  Puig. 

"I  buried  him,"  croaked  a  weary  voice,  "but  I 
still  keep  looking  behind  me  and  making  up  my  mouth 
to  whistle." 

The  giant  hooked  his  other  arm  through  Puig's, 
and  bore  him  along  in  their  thoughtful  sentry-go. 
For  a  time  no  more  was  said.  Jackdabos,  warm  with 
victory  and  good  St.  Gilles,  felt  pierced  to  the  heart 
when  he  saw  this  dejected  shadow  walking  beside 
them,  still  bereaved. 

"Philibert,"  continued  Barjavel  at  last,  "I  was 
telling  the  Jackdaw  why  we  shall  part  company.    Do 


LOSSES  BY  THE  WAY  59 

you  care  to  hear?  It  is  like  this.  We're  now  much 
nearer  to  your  gold  plate. ' '  The  shadow,  arm-in-arm 
with  them,  remained  passive  and  silent.  **If  our  luck 
holds  half  as  well  as  I  expect,  we  shall  discover  a 
great  thing;  for  how  we  know  that  Goiffon's  map  ex- 
ists, it  pictures  the  garden  with  the  old  orange  trees, 
it  hangs  in  a  villa  near  Mentone.  We'll  take  the 
night  train  south,  to  see  that  map.  But,  for  my  part, 
I  can  help  no  further.'* 

He  made  them  swing  about  and  go  tramping  back 
along  the  Bond  Point.  Arch  after  arch,  as  they  went, 
revealed  a  glimpse  of  the  moonlit  arena  within,  spa- 
cious, dreamily  white,  the  ghost  of  Rome. 

**I  can  help  no  further,"  said  Barjavel  again. 
**The  map  is  in  the  Villa  Pervinca,  downstairs,  near 
the  front  door.  I  can't — frankly,  boys,  I  don't  dare 
— show  my  face  round  some  parts  of  the  Eiviera." 

''Police?  Ah,  ah!"  chuckled  the  Jackdaw,  wisely. 
*'Very  well,  then.  You  leave  it  all  to  me.  I'll  get 
the  map  out  of  that  villa." 

"You!"  scoffed  Puig.  "Oh,  you  handsome  boys 
can  do  anything.  You  say  so  with  your  own  mouth, 
always." 

The  giant  pressed  them  tighter  by  the  elbows,  and 
laughed  in  his  beard. 

"That  villa,"  he  said,  "belongs  to  a  Princess." 

He  named  her,  a  Princess  beyond  cavil,  by  a  name 
so  great  and  lovely  that  it  struck  his  companions 


60  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

dumb.  They  stood  peering  up  at  him;  in  the  moon- 
light.   Even  the  pert  Jackdaw  was  abashed. 

*' Never  mind/'  he  bragged  obstinately.  "Princess 
or  chambermaid,  if  you  want  your  map,  111  get  it 
out  of  a  palace,  or  a  jail,  or  a  nunnery.'* 

Barjavel  patted  him  on  the  shoulder. 

'*0h,  youth!"  he  sighed.  ''How  you  talk!  For- 
ward, then.  Let's  see  you  get  it,  my  young  jewel  of 
a  thief." 

Jackdabos,  whipping  his  arm  free,  recoiled  from 
that  compliment. 

*'Look  here,  I'm  no  thief!"  said  he.  *' Don't  go 
calling  people " 

Barjavel  quietly  gathered  him  back  into  their 
triumvirate. 

**Well,  well,"  he  drawled,  with  slow  good  humor. 
** Follow  me,  honest  man;  we'll  watch  what  you  can 
do." 

They  took  the  P.  L.  M.  before  midnight,  and  trav- 
elled southward  in  a  rich,  gray-padded  compartment 
all  their  own,  with  a  ''Reserved"  label  gummed  on 
the  window.  When  Jackdaw  first  beheld  this  com- 
plete grandeur  of  the  first-class  railway  carriage,  and 
spied  his  own  canvas  bag,  by  some  miracle,  bulging 
overhead  in  the  luggage  net,  he  knew  he  never  could 
sleep  a  wink  that  night.  Long  after  his  friends  had 
curled  on  their  noble  cushions  under  the  glow-worm 
green    light    of    the    covered    ceiling-lamp,    he    sat 


LOSSES  BY  THE  WAY  61 

watching  them — Puig,  an  old-clothes  bundle  of  knees 
and  elbows,  Barjavel  outstretched  with  legs  abroad  in 
Olympian  comfort. 

''What  a  wild  project  we^re  chasing,"  thought  the 
youngster.  Fantastic  enough  it  seemed,  as  now, 
wrapped  in  strange  costliness,  they  whirled  through 
the  night.    ''Wonder  if  I  can  get  that  mapT' 

Cross-legged,  clasping  his  arms,  knitting  his  brows, 
the  Jackdaw  sat  like  a  plotting  imp.  Plan  after  plan 
he  formed  and  rejected.  See  the  map  he  must,  in 
the  Villa  of  a  Princess ;  or  be  shown  empty  and  vain- 
glorious to  his  companions.  Sometimes  he  cooled  his 
nose  on  the  window-glass,  to  stare  at  the  plain  and 
the  shadowy  cypresses  of  the  Crau  revolving  back- 
ward under  the  moonlight.  More  often  he  stared  at 
Barjavel  opposite,  that  calm  front  of  Jove  asleep. 

'*He*s  fooling  us,  playing  with  us.  Puig  was  right. 
How  does  he  raise  money  for  all  this?  What^s  his 
little  dodge?*'  Another  question  rose,  and  dwarfed 
the  rest.  '*How  did  he  know  the  map's  near  the 
front  door?    The  dark  lady  never  said  so." 

Working  at  this  puzzle,  and  thinking  himself  won- 
derfully vigilant,  he  dropped  asleep.  It  was  daylight 
when  he  felt  a  violent  shaking,  and  bounded  into  con- 
sciousness again  with  Puig's  hands  on  his  shoulders. 

**Wake  up!"  Puig's  voice  commanded  wrathfully. 
*'Look  alive,  boy !    What  do  you  make  of  this,  now?" 

The  train  ran  thundering  along  the  coast  of  a  bril- 


62  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

liant  sea.  The  right-hand  windows  framed  a  fljang 
picture  of  gray  limestone  headlands,  gray  islets,  and 
the  Mediterranean  glowing  darkly  in  bay  upon  curved 
bay. 

^ '  What  ?   Are  we  there  ? ' '  stammered  Jackdaw. 

'*Are  we!  Bah!"  scoffed  the  other,  with  a  final 
shake.    *'Are  we?    Yes,  but  how  many  of  us?" 

The  cat-green  eyes  looked  so  brimful  with  tidings, 
and  threw  such  a  meaning  glance  round  the  compart- 
ment, that  they  roused  Jackdabos  to  a  sense  of  fact; 
and  the  fact  was,  in  this  padded  box  of  luxury  which 
roared  and  rattled  along  the  Cote  d'Azur,  their  com- 
pany had  dwindled. 

Last  night  they  were  three;  this  morning,  two. 
Barjavel  had  gone.  An  upholstered  corner  yawn- 
ing where  his  large  presence  had  reclined,  showed  no 
trace  of  Barjavel. 

''Gone?" 

"Do  you  think  I  carry  him  in  my  pocket?"  howled 
Puig.  **0f  course  he  has  gone!  The  Great  Fat 
Thing,  he  got  up  and  sneaked  in  the  night.  See  what 
he  left  us." 

From  a  metal  clip  for  reservation  cards,  the  black- 
smith snatched  two  bits  of  colored  pasteboard — ^tick- 
ets, first  class,  for  Mentone.  Eecovering  his  amaze- 
ment, the  Jackdaw  examined  them. 

*'T  a  duhon,"  he  said.  **  They 're  good,  valid  tick- 
ets, and  Mentone  is  where  we're  going." 


LOSSES  BY  THE  WAY  63 

This  calm  and  sensible  conclusion  drove  Puig  into 
a  frenzy. 

**You!  You  made  me  leave  my  tools  behind  at 
Aigo-Morto!"  he  raged.  **Your  old  she-cripple  put 
words  on  my  dog  that  got  him  killed.  Tools  lost,  dog 
dead  and  buried,  this  sacred  Bulgarian  ass  of  a  Bar- 
javel  gone.  Money,  where  is  it?  I  am  betrayed. 
And  now,  foul  child,  you  sit  there  saying  the  tickets 
are  good!" 

The  Jackdaw's  temper  rose  by  a  few  degrees. 

**But  Barjavel  told  you  so  beforehand!"  he  cried 
loyally.    **He  warned  us  that  he  would  leave!" 

'*  Infant  of  sluttishness ! " 

Hotly  and  loudly  they  wrangled,  so  that  in  the  end 
their  train  carried  them  past  Mentone.  Providence 
and  a  sardonic  guard  ejected  them,  squabbling  tooth 
and  nail,  at  the  station  of  Garavan.  On  that  respect- 
able, quiet  platform,  Jackdabos  had  the  pleasure  of 
putting  a  small  but  hard  left  fist  compactly  over  the 
blacksmith's  eyebrow,  and  knocking  him  into  the  sta- 
tion-master's favorite  potted  tree. 

''Now,"  he  said,  during  a  sullen  truce  which  fol- 
lowed, "I  mean  to  go  see  where  that  Princess  keeps 
her  villa.    You  can  come  or  not,  as  you  like." 

Puig  rose  gradually,  scowling  murder. 

''Princess?"  he  mocked.  "I  throw  your  Princess 
to  the  cats!" 

"That  is  your  method  of  procedure,"  replied  the 


64  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

Jackdaw  grandly.  '*For  my  part,  I  wish  to  find  her 
map,  also  a  gold  plate.  If  I  find  them  alone,  so  much 
the  better  for  Barjy  and  me.  I  know  what  you  are. 
You're  a  doubter.'' 

He  snapped  his  fingers,  left  the  scandalized  porters 
agape,  and  marched  off  shouldering  his  canvas  bag, 
to  leave  it  with  a  man  of  his  acquaintance  who  made 
tourist  majolica  on  the  Gorbio  road.  This  workman, 
a  dark  nondescript  who  called  himself  Italian,  re- 
ceived the  Jackdaw  with  a  joyful  noise,  embraced  him 
in  the  shop,  and  forced  him  to  sit  down  under  a  back- 
yard trellis,  where  they  ate  and  drank  among  frag- 
ments of  colored  statuary.  When  after  much  talk  the 
Jackdaw  departed,  he  had  given  the  majolica  man  a 
brand  new  design  (done  with  bread-crumbs  at  table), 
had  refused  a  steady  job  of  modelling  other  designs 
in  clay,  and  had  learned  exactly  where  to  find  the 
villa  of  the  Princess. 

As  he  went,  rejoicing  in  the  mild,  sunny  prospect 
of  the  Gulf  of  Peace  beyond  rich  men's  housetops, 
he  began  to  consider  his  position. 

**Now  you're  alone,"  he  thought,  '*and  you've  been 
boasting  fearfully.  Jackdabos,  there's  no  more 
chance  of  seeing  that  garden  map  than  of  your  flying 
to  the  moon ;  or  seeing  Her  again — ^that  girl  with  the 
white  donkey.  Ah,  well!"  He  marched  on  doggedly, 
nevertheless,  and  climbed  a  road  which  rose  winding 
among  tile-capped  villa  walls  toward  a  promontory 


LOSSES  BY  THE  WAY  65 

of  dark  pines.  Below,  at  the  foot  of  the  Public  Gar- 
den, a  band  played  cheerful  music.  The  sound  floated 
through  the  golden  afternoon  air,  so  that  presently 
he  halted,  listened,  and  looked  back,  afar  off,  to  where 
on  the  curved  rim  of  the  bay,  little  white  figures  and 
colored  parasols  dotted  the  stone-girt  promenade  like 
a  dribble  of  confetti.  At  this  sight,  a  notion  darted 
through  his  mind — a  vague  notion,  then  a  hope,  then 
a  full-grown  strategem  that  set  him  grinning  at  the 
landscape.  **Good!''  said  he.  His  black  eyes  caught 
their  old  energetic  fire.  ** Good  boy!  Got  it!  We'll 
do  the  trick.  Why,  this  being  alone  is  pure  luck,  a 
God-send.  I*d  never  get  inside  any  Princess's  house 
with  Puig  tagging  along.  Lucky  we  fought  when  we 
did.    Good  riddance." 

With  great  alacrity  he  was  turning  to  climb  on- 
ward, when  he  spied  in  the  walled  road  below,  in  the 
sunny  lane  of  over-hanging  greenery,  a  shabby  little 
man  toiling  after  him.  The  gait  was  familiar.  A 
tired,  lonely,  disreputable  wanderer,  the  man  seemed 
to  follow  without  hope,  as  the  brindle  dog  used  to 
follow.    It  was  the  dog's  master. 

'*0h,  the  devil!  There  he  comes!"  thought  the 
Jackdaw.  "How  can  I  saddle  myself  with  an  ever- 
lasting .  .  .  Hang  it,  Puig  would  spoil  the  whole 
blessed  show  now." 

He  started  hurrying  on ;  but  conscience  made  each 
footfall  heavy,  and  another  backward  glance  undid 


66  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

him.  The  sight  of  that  disconsolate  enemy  was  too 
much.    His  heart  melted. 

'*Ah,  bah!"  he  cried.  **I  can't  leave  him  out. 
But  he  does  have  such  vile  manners!'' 

Next  m^oment  he  went  running  down  hill,  light- 
footed  as  a  rabbit. 

**  Sorry  I  struck  you,  Puig-pig,"  said  he,  as  they 
met  face  to  face  on  the  hill-road.  *'You  must  allow 
for  my  temper,  always.  I've  got  a  devilish  bad  dis- 
position.   No  hard  feeling,  old  boy?" 


CHAPTER  VI 

HOW  JACKDABOS  BECAME  A  FATHER 

The  smith  was  none  too  cordial. 

**Yon  almost  got  me  nipped  for  that  fight,*'  he 
complained,  glowering.  **The  chief  said  I  broke  his 
filthy  tree,  and  called  the  police.  I  had  to  climb  an 
iron-spiked  fence." 

And  he  exhibited  his  trousers,  torn  with  triangu- 
lar gaps,  which  disclosed  a  pair  of  hairy  knees. 

''Teach  you  to  move  faster,*'  quoth  Jackdabos. 
'  *  Keep  up  with  me,  after  this.    Are  you  ready  ?    Go. '  * 

** Where?*'  demanded  the  unreasonable  Puig. 

*'To  leave  our  cards  on  a  Princess.** 

The  Jackdaw  set  off  at  the  word,  climbing  up  hill 
again.  Puig  trudged  along  beside  him,  with  nothing 
more  to  say  but  a  bitter  word  now  and  then — ^''Open, 
shut.  Penny  a  peep.  Flip-flap.  Cuckoo!" — ^when 
his  kneecaps  looked  out  of  his  trousers. 

So,  peace  again  restored,  they  left  behind  the  out- 
lying houses  of  the  town,  and  entered  the  pine  grove 
on  the  headland.    Like  Cap  Martin,  though  smaller 

67 


68  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

and  less  worldly-wise  in  its  landscape,  the  grove  ad- 
mitted here  and  there  a  vista  of  sea  water,  dark  blue, 
shimmering  through  tangled  rosemary  and  myrtle. 
Once  they  spied  a  keeper  or  liveried  watchman  roam- 
ing the  wood,  at  sight  of  whom  they  squatted  behind 
a  rock.  Once,  in  a  sudden  cross- way,  they  dodged  the 
porter  of  some  Russian  noble,  a  romantic  long-beard 
who  wore  the  Georgian  tunic  shirred  across  the  breast 
with  blank-cartridge  pockets,  and  who,  vaguely  hear- 
ing trespassers,  looked  roundabout,  solemn  as  an  eagle, 
but  failed  to  see  them  when  they  darted  past.  The 
Jackdaw  wriggled  among  the  pine  shadows  like  an 
Indian,  without  faltering  or  losing  the  line  he  seemed 
to  follow. 

''Here  we  are,'*  he  said  at  last.    **Pipe  the  villa.'' 

They  scrambled  down  a  bushy  bank,  tumbled  into  a 
hard,  smooth  road  such  as  the  wealthy  love,  and  halted 
before  a  pseudo-rustic  gate  overhung  with  trained 
masses  of  blue  periwinkle. 

''Take  it  in,"  murmured  Jackdabos.  "Quickly. 
Here's  where  the  Princess  lives.  Take  it  all  in. 
Look?    Front  door  straight  ahead." 

The  Villa  Pervinca  modestly  confronted  them  across 
a  pink  gravel  path,  neatly  brushed.  A  trim  white 
house,  roofed  with  pale-red  tiles,  it  stood  in  a  hill 
garden  full  of  bright  flowers  that  ran  deeply  down 
to  the  Ligurian  Sea.  Mimosas  overhung  it  and  ren- 
dered it  commonplace.     The  front  door  was  closed; 


HOW  JACKDABOS  BECAME  A  FATHER  69 

but  sidelights  flanking  the  door  showed,  by  a  glimmer 
of  afternoon  sunshine  within,  that  the  hallway  or 
vestibule  went  clear  through  to  westerly  windows 
overlooking  the  water. 

* '  Good  fortune, ' '  murmured  Jackdabos.  *  *  Couldn  't 
be  better.    This  house  was  fairly  built  for  us,  Puig. ' ' 

He  caught  the  smith's  elbow  and  hauled  him  away 
from  the  gate. 

*' Back  to  town.    Nobody  saw  us. " 

Puig  struggled  and  hung  behind. 

**What  you  running  away  for?''  he  said.  '*We 
just  came.'' 

'*But  we  know  it  all."  The  Jackdaw  tugged  him 
along.  *'We  can  go  to  work  now.  I  understand  all 
the  rest." 

Puig  still  came  reluctantly,  staring  back  over  the 
garden  hedge. 

'*Know  all?"  he  cried.  ** Hanged  if  we  know  any- 
thing, you  wild  man." 

Jackdabos  released  him,  and,  laughing,  beckoned 
with  one  arm  persuasively. 

'*Come,  come!  We  know  enough.  I  know  this 
much:  the  villa's  near  the  road,  the  Princess  gets 
home  from  her  drive  at  four  o'clock,  she's  a  childless 
woman,  and  I  hear  she's  fond  of  children.  Don't  be 
caught  loafing  and  staring  over  gates.  We  know 
plenty.    Have  a  little  faith!" 

Nothing  more  would  he  disclose.    They  walked  back 


70  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

to  town  by  the  road,  openly  and  without  haste,  paus- 
ing on  a  hill-top  to  watch  the  sunset  flare  crimson 
over  Mont  Agel,  twilight  sweep  in  like  a  mist  from  the 
bays,  and  the  Dog's  Head  promontory  become  a  bluish 
vapor,  under  which  gradually  twinkled  the  pale, 
wicked  fireflies  of  Monte  Carlo.  That  night  they  slept 
in  a  loft  over  a  wheelwright's  workshop,  where  the 
torrent  Gorbio  sounded  peacefully  beneath  their  win- 
dows. 

Puig,  early  next  morning,  found  his  trousers 
mended  as  well  as  if  the  torn  cloth  had  healed. 

*' Fairies  have  been  at  work  here!"  he  swore,  sit- 
ting on  his  cot  and  admiring  both  knees. 

*'I  did  it,"  confessed  the  Jackdaw,  who  came  into 
the  loft  all  aglow.  He  had  been  swimming  be- 
fore daylight  in  the  gray-green  mountain  torrent. 
*' That's  a  poor  job,"  he  explained,  ** because  the 
candle  flickered,  but  I  used  to  work  for  a  stoppeur/' 

'  *  Good  Lord ! ' '  said  the  smith.  ' '  You  can  do  any- 
thing!" 

*'I  believe  you,  my  boy,"  replied  Jackdabos,  towel- 
ling his  head. 

The  other  stared  at  him. 

''You're  a  puzzle.  I  can't  understand  you.  Jack- 
daw. Now  see,  how  can  you  wash  all  over  in  that  cold 
stream?" 

'* Don't  know,"  said  Jackdabos  frankly.  *'Must 
be  the  wild  side  of  me."     He  wriggled  into  his 


HOW  JACKDABOS  BECAME  A  FATHER  71 

brown  velveteens,  then  brushed  them  carefully, 
like  a  cat  brushing  his  fur.  *'Look  here,  old  Burn- 
the-Wind,  will  you  help  this  wheelwright  down  below 
sweat  a  tire  on?  That  will  pay  our  lodging.  Eh? 
Good  man.  I  told  him  you  would.  Then  meet  me 
about  two  o'clock  by  Dr.  Bennett's  monument — ^you 
know,  that  silly  English  bust  in  the  Partouneaux. 
Good-bye.  I've  got  to  find  Hermance.  This  is  my 
busy  day." 

He  shot  out  of  the  room  again,  thundered  down- 
stairs, and  went  off  whistling  Pedro's  Mule  in  the 
road. 

**That  boy's  growing  too  uppish  altogether," 
thought  Puig.   * '  Wonder  if  there 's  anything  in  him  ? ' ' 

Something  there  must  have  been,  an  idea,  or  a  hope ; 
for  when  the  morning  idlers  were  out  in  force,  and 
strolling  along  the  Midi  where  low  waves  gently 
broke  to  rattle  the  beach  pebbles  under  the  embank- 
ment, a  limber  youth  in  velveteen  edged  his  way 
through  to  the  donkey  stand.  Here,  as  always,  a 
troop  of  dejected,  philosophic  asses  waited  in  the 
glare,  sleepily  tilting  their  gray  ears  and  hoping  not 
to  be  hired.  The  chief  donkey-woman,  spare  and 
merry,  keen-eyed,  swart  as  an  Arab  under  her  sun- 
bonnet,  was  quick  to  spy  an  old  friend  coming. 

"Good  day,  Sara!" 

**Ah,  the  little  Jack!"  she  cried,  her  teeth  flashing 


72  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

in  a  grin.  ''My  dear  boy,  are  you  come  to  break  my 
old  heart  again? '^ 

"Mother,"  said  Jackdabos,  beaming,  "your  heart 
is  like  Monte  Carlo  bank  yonder,  too  full  of  gold  to  be 
broken.    I  only  want  your  help." 

"Son,  if  I  were  your  mother  in  this  body,"  re- 
torted the  woman,  "I  should  bring  you  up  to  have 

better  sense  and  more  industry,  like "    She  waved 

her  hand  at  the  little  concourse  of  donkeys — "these 
other  children  of  mine." 

They  both  laughed.  Sara  ignored  a  pompous 
blond  Northerner  who  came  fuming  after  donkeys  to 
hire. 

"And  now,"  she  demanded,  when  they  had  talked 
themselves  out,  "what  help  of  mine  do  you  want, 
sweetheart?" 

"This,"  explained  Jackdabos.  "You  know  every- 
body. Has  the  little  dancing  girl  on  stilts  come  here 
this  season?" 

"Little  Hermance?  You  11  find  her  near  the  Place 
d'Armes,"  answered  Sara,  without  thinking  twice. 
"Her  mother  sells  watercolors  at  the  bath-house  all 
morning.    They  don't  do  the  streets  till  afternoon." 

The  Jackdaw  kissed  Sara's  leather-brown  hand, 
while  her  customer  fumed  louder,  and  sputtered,  and 
threatened. 

"Mother,  you're  an  institute  of  learning.  Good 
on  your  head.    Give  this  fat  superman  a  mount  he'll 


HOW  JACKDABOS  BECAME  A  FATHER  73 

remember,  will  you?  A  regular  Kicking  Dicky  V 
*'God  bless  you,  kind  gentleman.  I  will/' 
Thus  it  happened  that  by  mid-aflemoon  Jackda- 
bos  and  Puig  once  more  were  leaning  over  the  pseudo- 
rustic  gate  of  the  Villa  Pervinca.  They  were  not  sly, 
as  on  their  former  visit,  but  bold  and  noisy,  the  one 
playing  a  concertina  fit  to  burst,  the  other  singing 
*'Au  Clair  de  la  Lune."  Behind  them,  round  and 
round  the  road,  a  little  girl  on  stilts  clattered  and 
skipped  and  staggered,  dancing  to  the  music,  now 
sedately,  now  with  a  pirouette  that  made  her  white 
petticoats  fly  blossoming  like  a  ham-frill  about  her 
meagre  legs.  The  song,  the  concertina,  and  the  patter 
of  her  stilts  outraged  all  the  neighborhood  with  rowdy 
cheer. 

** Don't  forget,  Hermance,''  murmured  the  Jack- 
daw, playing  faster  and  faster,  **when  I  say  'Flop,' 
down  you  go.  You're  taken  very  sick.  I'm  your 
father.  Remember,  you'll  get  marrons  glacis  and 
a  piece  of  one  hundred  sous." 

Hermance  bounded  on  her  stilts  like  a  goat  upon  a 
house-top.  She  was  a  dirty,  wiry,  sunburnt  witch 
of  a  girl,  with  vixen  black  eyes. 

'*0h.  Papa,"  she  answered,  whirling  again,  "I 
begin  to  suffer  already.  I  feel  that  sunstroke  coming 
which  you  promised." 

** Heaven  reward  you,  daughter,"  said  Jackdabos. 
"Anybody  come  to  the  windows  yet,  Puig?" 


74  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

The  freckled  singer,  who  strained  his  throat  aloft, 
warbled  a  false  tenor  which  made  the  pine-woods 
ring. 

**No,''  he  panted  between  verses.  ''Yes.  In  the 
sidelights  by  the  door.  One  is  watching  us.  An  old 
man  with  whiskers. '* 

"That  is  not  the  Princess,'^  Jackdabos  replied. 
"Look  sharp.  Continue,  Hermance,  my  little  der- 
vish.'' 

And  he  pumped  his  wheezing  instrument  like  a 
man  whose  soul  flew  on  the  wings  of  harmony. 

'  *  Ready, ' '  said  Puig,  his  eyes  fast  on  the  villa  door. 
"Old  whiskers  gone  to  report.  Yes.  Here  they 
come.  People  moving  in  the  vestibule.  I  see  the 
skirts  of  a  woman.'* 

"Flop!''  cried  the  Jackdaw. 

It  was  well  rehearsed  and  better  played.  Her- 
mance let  go  her  stilt-handles,  clapped  both  fists  to 
her  frowsy  black  head,  and  with  a  quiet  moan  tumb- 
led prostrate  on  the  road.  A  critic  might  have 
thought  this  fall,  so  quick  and  startling,  was  too 
nearly  perfect;  but  Puig  and  Jackdabos,  far  from 
being  critical,  ran  to  her  with  loud,  compassionate 
cries.  The  concertina,  left  hanging  by  some  inad- 
vertence on  the  gate,  collapsed  and  fell  into  the 
villa  grounds. 

"Oh,  my  poor  child!"  wailed  Jackdabos.  "I  am 
a  cruel  father  to  thee!    Stop  laughing,  Puig.    Here 


HOW  JACKDABOS  BECAME  A  FATHER  75 

they  come.    Remember  you^re  her  uncle,  and  howl.'* 

Puig,  who  now  first  saw  the  practical  drift  of 
things,  fell  into  a  maudlin  state  which  outdid  acting. 
He  knelt  beside  the  dancer  and  writhed.  Down  his 
freckled  face  ran  tears. 

*'My  niece!''  he  whooped  and  hiccoughed. 
** Brother,  you  have  murdered  her!" 

As  they  squatted  lamenting  in  the  road,  with  Her- 
mance  and  her  stilts  between  them,  a  face  peered 
over  the  garden  gate.  It  was  a  cold,  agnostic  face, 
with  a  Pecksniff  collar  and  a  bland  throat  showing 
between  gray  swallowtail  whiskers.  It  took  a  very 
conservative  view,  then  opened  its  lips  and  said: 

**How  did  you  come  past  the  keeper?" 

Jackdabos  knew  a  major-domo  when  he  saw  one. 

**Sir,  don't  scold  us!"  he  begged,  wringing  his 
hands.  **We  are  poor  devils  at  our  wits'  end.  My 
daughter — see! — ^while  dancing,  my  own  Hermance 
fell  down  in  a  sunstroke.  Give  us  half  a  moment,  sir, 
till  we  can  carry  her  away." 

**Open  the  gate,"  said  a  quiet  voice. 

The  major-domo  withdrew  his  head;  the  gate 
swung  open ;  and  there,  advancing  toward  them,  came 
the  Princess.  Tall,  slight,  straight  as  a  wand,  bare- 
headed and  plainly  dressed  in  white,  she  stepped  from 
her  garden  and  looked  down  at  that  gaudy  bundle, 
that  sham  sufferer  lying  on  the  road.  Jackdabos  met 
her   eyes,    dark,    sorrowful    eyes    that    looked    him 


76  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

through  calmly  and  put  to  shame  his  knowledge  of 
the  world.  She  was  neither  young  nor  old,  but  a 
woman  of  ageless  beauty,  though  the  black  hair  curv- 
ing from  her  temples  was  faintly  touched  with  a  sil- 
ver frost  which  became  her  like  a  diadem. 

** Bring  your  child  indoors,''  she  commanded. 

They  obeyed.  Jackdabos  lifted  the  little  fraud  in 
his  arms,  and  carried  her,  Puig  following,  through 
a  fiower-bordered  path  to  the  villa.  While  they  went, 
the  major-domo,  like  a  faithful  servant,  undertoned 
some  remonstrance:  **I  think  they  are  internation- 
als. .  .  ." 

The  Jackdaw  heard  that  warning,  and  flared  at 
once. 

''Madam,  we  are  not  thieves!''  he  cried. 

The  Princess  turned  on  her  threshold,  and,  smiling, 
beckoned  him  to  enter. 

**I  believe  you,  sir,"  she  replied,  so  lightly  that  he 
felt  rebuked  for  brawling. 

Next  moment  they  were  in  a  pleasant  hall-way, 
which  looked  through  open  windows,  a  veranda,  and 
tree-tops  beyond,  down  a  hill-garden  to  the  bright 
western  sea.  Books  and  vases  of  flowers  filled  the 
room,  with  here  and  there  a  few  small  pictures. 

**Lay  the  child  down,"  said  the  Princess,  pausing 
by  a  chintz-covered  couch.  ''We'll  find  something  to 
restore  her." 

With  a  sign  to  her  major-domo,  she  passed  into 


HOW  JACKDABOS  BECAME  A  FATHER  77 

an  adjoining  room.  He  followed,  but  looked  back 
more  than  doubtfully  at  Puig,  the  Jackdaw,  and  their 
little  acrobat  lying  asprawl  on  the  couch.  He  dis- 
appeared, however,  and  left  them  alone. 

''Where  is  it?  Where  is  it?'*  whispered  the  smith, 
grinning,  elated.    *  *  Where 's  the  map  ?   Jump  lively ! '  * 

Jackdabos  turned  his  head  away. 

**I  thought  she'd  be  fat  and  purse-proud,'*  he  de- 
clared. **I'm  ashamed.  Rather  than  lie  to  her,  a 
man  would  throw  his  tongue  to  the  cats.  I'n| 
ashamed.    Here's  the  picture  of  Goiffon's  garden." 

He  stood  looking  dolefully  at  a  small,  framed  water- 
color,  which  hung  beside  the  mantelpiece.  Delicately 
tinted,  and  drawn  after  the  picture-book  fashion  of 
some  old  explorer's  chart,  it  showed  in  droll  perspec- 
tive a  house  and  a  walled  garden  full  of  orange  trees, 
a  fish-pond,  an  arbor,  a  bit  of  crumbled  monument  or 
ruin.  Puig  darted  across  the  room  to  join  him  in 
studying  this  long-desired  landscape.  Beyond  any 
chance  of  error,  they  had  found  it.  A  scroll  drawn 
at  the  foot  of  the  picture  contained  the  words:  "JJic 
Tiahitant  Goiffones/' 

*'Take  it!    Take  it!"  hissed  Puig.  , 

The  Jackdaw  remained  motionless. 

*'I  won't,"  he  said. 

**You  don't  dare,"  mocked  the  other. 

**Dare?"  Jackdabos  roared  and  roused  like  a 
young  lion.    "Me?    Dare?" 


78  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

With  what  seemed  two  jerks,  quicker  than  light,  he 
snatched  the  picture  from  the  wall,  stuffed  it  under 
his  velveteen  jacket,  then  whipped  it  out  and  hung 
it  once  more,  straight  and  true,  upon  its  hook.  The 
thing  vanished  and  reappeared  like  a  flying  shadow, 
like  a  miracle. 

* '  Don 't  talk  dare  to  me. ' ' 

"Oh,"  sighed  Puig,  gaping  round-eyed  at  this  per- 
fect piece  of  legerdemain.  ''Why  didn^t  you  keep 
it?    Too  late  now.  .  .  ." 

He  sidled  awkwardly  in  front  of  the  picture,  just 
as  the  Princess  returned,  with  a  bottle  of  lavender 
salts  in  her  hand.  The  major-domo  sullenly  followed, 
bringing  a  tray  filled  with  various  restoratives.  Jack- 
dabos  ran  to  join  them  by  the  couch,  where  little 
Hermance  lay  still  as  death.  Puig  stayed  by  his 
mantelpiece. 

*'Poor  girl!"  said  the  Princess,  kneeling  and  going 
quietly  to  work.    * '  Poor,  tired  child. ' ' 

The  dirty,  sunburnt  face  of  Hermance  began  to 
wrinkle,  and  her  nose  to  twitch  above  the  lavender 
bottle.  She  worked  nobly  to  earn  five  francs  and  a 
box  of  sweetmeats,  but  nature  her  custom  held.  Her- 
mance gave  a  violent  sneeze,  and  came  to  life. 

*'0h.  Monsieur,"  she  blubbered,  winking  genuine 
tears  from  her  black  eyes,  **I  could  not  help  it!" 

After  this,  the  restoration  was  rapid  and  complete. 


HOW  JACKDABOS  BECAME  A  FATHER  79 

** Don't  scold  her,''  said  the  Princess,  looking  up 
at  Jackdabos. 

**Have  no  fear.  Madam,"  the  young  man  sadly- 
promised.    ' '  It  was  all  my  fault. ' ' 

He  gathered  the  grimy  convalescent  to  his  bosom, 
and  carrying  her  so,  bowed,  stared  at  Puig  meaningly, 
and  jerked  his  head  toward  the  door.  All  the  clever 
story  he  had  prepared,  of  wandering,  poverty,  heat, 
and  privation,  flew  out  of  his  mind  like  the  vulgar 
chaff  it  was. 

* 'We're  indebted  to  your  great  kindness.  And  I 
am — ashamed." 

The  Princess  rose  and  watched  him  depart,  without 
seeing  the  many  queer  obeisances  made  by  Puig,  who 
followed  him. 
•   **Take  better  care  of  her,"  called  the  Princess. 

**I  will,"  replied  Jackdabos,  turning  in  the  door- 
way with  a  strange  smile,  the  smile  of  a  defeated 
angel. 

They  went  out  into  the  sunlight,  crossed  the  gar- 
den path,  picked  up  the  fallen  concertina,  shouldered 
the  stilts,  and  tramped  away  down  the  road  among 
pines  and  carob  trees.  The  Jackdaw  went  oblivious, 
carrying  Hermance  in  his  arms  as  if  she  really  had 
been  ill.  When  they  had  rounded  two  curves  of  the 
road,  Puig  laughed. 

**Well,"  he  said,  grounding  the  stilts,  ''that  wasn't 
so    bad,    old   boy.      You're    not    the    only    Presto 


80  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

Change-oh.  While  you  were  talking,  I  scratched  my 
back  on  the  fireplace,  and — got  it  after  all." 

The  smith  pulled  from  under  his  coat-tail  a  small 
framed  water-color. 

''What?    You  stole  itr' 

Jackdabos  carefully  set  the  little  girl  down  on  her 
feet.    He  grew  pale. 

'*You  took  that  mapT'  he  cried;  then  added  very 
mildly:  **No  doubt  you  meant  well,  Puig,  but  you 
have  destroyed  my  honor.    Give  me  that!'' 

He  snatched  the  map  out  of  Puig's  hand,  thrust 
him  staggering  back  among  the  roadside  myrtles, 
turned  like  a  man  fleeing  from  disaster,  and  at  full 
speed  ran  toward  the  villa  gate. 


CHAPTER  VII 


THE  MAP  AND  THE  PLACE 


At  the  villa  gate  lie  ceased  running,  but  only  for 
a  moment,  while  he  hid  behind  a  glossy  hanging  mass 
of  periwinkle  and  stuffed  Goiffon^s  picture  under  his 
jacket.  Then  he  raced  through  the  garden  to  the 
Princess's  door. 

Even  after  he  had  knocked,  Jackdabos  could  invent 
no  excuse. 

**How,''  he  thought,  fingering  the  edges  of  the 
picture-frame  in  his  bosom,  **how  shall  I  pop  this  back 
on  the  wall  ?    Heavens,  what  a  mess !  * ' 

He  was  cursing  Puig's  perfidy,  when  the  door 
opened  and  the  major-domo  stared  blandly  out. 

**You  again  r'  said  this  mild- whiskered  Cerberus. 
**We  are  to  bathe  your  forehead  now,  perhaps?*' 

"Sir,**  cried  the  Jackdaw,  ''let  me  in,  I  beg.  One 
instant.    I  must  see  your  mistress.  * ' 

Unmoved,  the  honey-tongued  old  stoic  swung  his 
door  to. 

**And  I,*'  he  drawled,  *'must  deprive  her  of  that 
pleasure." 

81 


82  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

Jackdabos,  exalted  by  despair,  flung  himself  edge- 
wise between  door  and  jamb.  A  hot  struggle  fol- 
lowed. He  fought  at  a  disadvantage,  being  bound 
not  to  crack  the  glass  of  the  picture  under  his  coat. 
Youth  at  last  prevailed.    He  burst  into  the  room. 

*'Apaclie!''  panted  the  old  man.  **In  broad  day- 
light ?    We  shall  see,  we  shall  see ! ' ' 

He  staggered  back,  waving  his  arms  over  his  ven- 
erable head,  then  turned  to  run  for  assistance.  At 
that  moment,  however,  through  one  of  the  veranda 
windows  the  Princess  came  into  the  room — a  white 
figure  carrying  a  handful  of  fresh  gladioli. 

**What  is  here?''  she  asked,  not  even  showing  sur- 
prise. Both  men  regarded  her  like  fools  caught  in 
their  folly.  She  waved  the  major-domo  aside  with 
her  sword-like  flowers.  "Go  calm  yourself,''  she 
advised;  then,  when  he  had  gone  grumbling  out,  she 
turned  to  Jackdabos:  *'You  had  forgotten  some- 
thing?" 

Jackdabos  bowed.  The  mere  sight  of  this  lady,  so 
beautiful,  sad,  and  strong,  restored  him  like  magic. 
He  stood  upright.  His  dark  face  glowed.  All  would 
yet  come  right.  Even  while  he  thought  so,  he  per- 
ceived in  a  flash  his  only  possible  line  of  conduct,  and 
took  it. 

**I  came  to  beg  your  forgiveness,"  he  declared, 
smiling.    **I'm  no  good.    But  I'm  sorry." 

He  reached  down  into  a  deep  pocket,  from  which 


THE  MAP  AND  THE  PLACE  83 

he  brought  a  dirty  buckskin  pouch  containing  his 
little  weight  of  money.  It  was  not  money  he  pro- 
duced from  this  pouch,  but  something  he  valued  far 
more. 

*'The  only  good  thing  I  ever  made/'  he  explained, 
holding  it  out  to  her.  **  Please  take  it.  If  you  for- 
give me,  Madam,  you  will  keep  this.'' 

The  Princess  laid  the  bright  gladioli  on  a  chair, 
and  took  in  her  slender  fingers  what  he  offered — a 
tiny  brooch  of  wrought  silver. 

**0h!"  she  exclaimed  with  delight.  "Our  dear 
cigala?" 

She  carried  it  to  the  windows,  where  the  sunshine 
made  it  glitter  in  her  palm.  Jackdabos  had  spoken 
truly.  His  best  piece  of  work,  which  he  could  never 
bear  to  sell  even  when  hungry,  it  was  a  silver  cigala, 
the  shrill-chirping  minstrel  of  Provence. 

** Whether  she  keeps  it  or  not,"  he  told  himself,  as 
he  backed  quietly  toward  the  fireplace,  and  gripped 
the  picture-frame  under  his  coat,  *'she  can't  help 
looking  at  it.    The  thing  is  too  fine." 

He  was  right.  It  was  no  common  trinket  made 
for  catch-penny  trade.  The  Princess  bent  her  lovely 
head  down  to  a  thing  worth  seeing.  As  she  did  so, 
the  Jackdaw  made  a  lightning  pass  behind  him,  then 
moved  carelessly  away  from  the  mantel.  Goiffon's 
picture  hung  once  more  on  its  accustomed  hook. 

**But  this  is  charming,"  said  the  Princess. 


i  • 


84  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

"Then  it's  worth  your  keeping T'  he  begged. 

She  glanced  at  him  quickly,  and  saw  that  he  was 
not  only  in  earnest,  but  in  a  seventh  heaven  of  pride. 
She  raised  the  little  silver  insect  and  pinned  it  among 
the  white  stuff  below  her  throat.  Light  from  the  sea 
gardeii  sparkled  on  it. 

**  *The  sun  makes  me  to  sing.'  '*  She  quoted  in 
Provengal  the  motto  of  the  cigala.  "I.  wear  your 
decoration.*' 

Jackdabos  went  backward,  bowing,  till  he  reached 
the  open  door. 

**May  the  sun  never  set  in  your  heart!"  he  cried, 
with  such  ardor  and  faith  as  would  move  mountains, 
not  to  say  a  woman.  *'You  have  made  one  poor  devil 
happy." 

To  his  great  wonder,  the  Princess  followed  him 
swiftly  as  far  as  her  door. 

''What?"  she  said,  looking  down  reproachfully  at 
him  in  the  path.  '*You,  a  poor  devil?  And  you  can 
make  things  like  this?"  She  tapped  the  silver  cigala 
at  her  throat.  **For  shame!  Go  work,  and  work 
hard.  Are  you  the  kind  that  buries  his  talent  in  a 
napkin?" 

The  brown  rascal  smiled  at  her,  but  ruefully.  Out- 
side the  house  he  seemed  another  creature. 

''There's  the  trouble,"  he  said.  **I  can't  stay  in- 
doors long  enough  to  work.  *The  sun  makes  rm  to 
sing.'  " 


THE  MAP  AND  THE  PLACE  85 

He  ran  up  the  garden  path,  turned  at  the  gate, 
bowed  again,  and  vamshed.  His  clear  voice  resounded 
from  the  road : 

*'  'A  poor  little  chap,  it  fell  to  his  lot, 
Et  Ion  la  laire, 
Et  Ion  Ian  la, 

A  poor  little  chap,  it  fell  to  his  lot 
To  worship  her  who  loved  him  not. 

'*  *She  said  to  him:  *'Lay  at  my  feet," 
Et  Ion  la  laire, 
Et  Ion  Ian  la. 

She  said  to  him:  ''Lay  at  my  feet 
Your  mother *s  heart  for  my  dog  to  eat." 

**  *Went  to  his  mother  and  killed  her  dead, 
Et  Ion  la  laire.  .  .  .'  " 

The  song,  a  corrupt  version  of  Richepin's  Marie- 
des-Anges,  dwindled  in  the  distance  among  the  sun- 
lit greenery. 

*'  'The  heart  said,  weeping,  low  and  mild, 
Et  Ion  la  laire, 
Et  Ion  Ian  la. 

The  heart  said,  weeping,  low  and  mild, 
"Hast  thou  hurt  thyself,  my  chUd?"  '  " 


86  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

The  Princess  leaned  in  her  doorway  and  listened 
until  song  and  running  feet  became  inaudible.  The 
sun  lay  bright  among  the  flowers,  and  her  garden 
seemed  narrower  than  before. 

As  for  Jackdabos,  he  came  racing  round  that  curve 
of  the  woodland  road  where  Puig  and  Hermance 
awaited  him.  They  sat  under  a  myrtle  bank,  but  slid 
down  afoot  when  the  Jackdaw  appeared. 

'*Wild  man,''  called  Puig  sternly,  holding  one  stilt 
ready  as  a  club,  *'wild  man,  answer  me.  What  have 
you  doner* 

Jackdabos  laughed,  wrested  the  weapon  from  his 
hands,  and  gave  it  to  the  girl. 

** Little  pitchers,''  he  observed.  *' Hermance,  dear, 
run  play  by  the  shore.  Well  call  you  when  it's  time 
to  go  buy  sweetmeats." 

The  tumbling-girl  grinned,  and  trotted  off  down 
the  road. 

'*I  hung  the  lady's  map  where  it  belongs,"  con- 
tinued Jackdabos.  *  *  That 's  all.  Our  honor  is  patched 
up." 

*' Honor?"  raged  Puig.  *'Bah,  ditched!  We're 
ditched!    Lost  our  map  after  all  this  trouble." 

*'Sit  down."  The  Jackdaw  pushed  him — gently, 
this  time — against  the  bank.  ''We  need  not  turn  bar- 
barian.   I  have  the  map." 

''Eh!"  shouted  Puig.    "Where?" 

Jackdabos  maintained  a  calm  superiority. 


THE  MAP  AND  THE  PLACE  87 

*'In  my  head/*  he  replied.  **A  little  study  is  bet- 
ter than  much  thieving.  Before  you  stole  that  pic- 
ture, I  knew  it  by  heart.  Observe. '  *  Breaking  a  myr- 
tle spray,  he  scratched  with  its  point  a  rough  oblong 
on  the  road.  **That*s  Goijffon's  garden."  Inside  the 
oblong  he  drew  noughts  and  crosses,  quickly,  accu- 
rately, with  decision.  *' Don't  you  see?  There'' — 
he  pointed — *'was  the  westernmost  orange  tree  to- 
ward the  northwest  corner.  Two  metres  from  that, 
somebody  buried  our  gold  plate.  Well!  Your  cor- 
nermost  orange  grew  directly  from  under  a  ruin  by 
the  wall — ^from  the  western  edge  of  the  ruin.  There, 
I  draw  it  so.    And  it  was  a  Roman  ruin.'' 

Puig  snorted. 

** Roman?    What  if  it  was?    You're  an  ass." 

The  Jackdaw  placidly  buttonholed  him,  and  said: 

** Orange  trees  may  be  cut  down,  old  man;  but 
Goiffon,  or  the  successor  of  Goiffon,  does  not  destroy 
a  Roman  ruin  in  his  own  garden.  No,  sir:  not  to 
please  your  grandmother.  We  have  good  solid  Roman 
masonry  to  measure  from." 

Puig  stared  hard  and  long  at  the  scratches  in  the 
dirt. 

** Damme  if  I  don't  begin  to  think,"  he  said  grudg- 
ingly, '*that  you  have  something  inside  that  little 
round  nut  of  yours,  after  all.  Let's  go  find  this  gar- 
den." 

They  found  it,  late  on  the  next  Saturday  after- 


88  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

noon.  Goiffon's  name  still  lingered  in  that  neighbor- 
hood, for  they  followed  his  memory,  asking  Ligurian 
workmen  here  and  there,  until  it  led  them  out  of 
France,  across  the  torrent  Saint  Louis,  high  on  a 
limestone  spur  into  Italy.  Gray  stone  walls,  the 
labor  of  centuries,  terraced  a  mountain  gorge  where 
violets  grew  thickly  under  the  moonlight-colored  leaves 
of  ancient  olive  boughs,  and  where  on  every  eminence 
the  air  tasted  fresh  and  lively,  scented  with  green 
heather.  A  swarthy,  bright-eyed  hillman,  cutting 
roots  for  briar  pipe-bowls,  looked  up  from  his  frag- 
rant work  at  the  Jackdaw's  hail,  and  welcomed  the 
Jackdaw  as  a  brother. 

** There  stands  the  house  you're  looking  for,"  he 
said,  pointing.  *  *  Goiffon  died.  Yes,  he  was  a  painter, 
and  a  man  who  went  round  talking  friendly  like  you 
and  me.  One  of  these  rich  fly-by-nights  owns  the 
poor  old  building  now,  they  say.  You're  welcome, 
dear  soul." 

Through  an  olive  grove  they  approached  the  house 
at  sunset.  It  was  a  pink  stucco  villa  rearing  its  sec- 
ond storey  above  a  high  gray  stucco  wall,  and  looking 
down  over  Mortola  to  the  sea.  Faded  green  shutters 
flung  wide,  and  white  curtains  fluttering  slowly, 
showed  that  the  upper  windows  all  stood  open  to  the 
evening  air.  Puig  and  the  Jackdaw  squatted  in  an 
old  grassy  trench,  well  within  the  boundary  of  the 
grove,  where  they  could  spy  out  the  land  in  safety. 


THE  MAP  AND  THE  PLACE  89 

So  near  the  object  of  their  search,  both  men  hung 
back  and  doubted. 

*'We  sha'n*t  find  anything/'  said  one. 

**Not  likely/'  agreed  the  other. 

Yet,  having  devoured  the  sight  of  this  hillside  dwell- 
ing, their  eyes  danced  and  glittered  when  they  met 
again. 

** Don't  lose. time,"  Jackdabos  implored. 

Puig  nodded,  stood  up,  hitched  his  belt  closer,  and 
set  off  walking  through  the  grove.  He,  by  agreement, 
was  the  one  who  should  put  their  plot  in  motion,  and 
deliver  the  attack:  he  was  to  appear  at  the  house 
boldly  as  a  gardener  seeking  work,  an  honest  poor 
man  from  Roquebrune  whose  asparagus  had  failed, 
and  who  wanted  any  odd  job  to  earn  victuals  by. 
Deliberate,  burly,  determined,  with  a  trowel  stuck 
in  his  pocket,  Puig  looked  the  part  as  he  swaggered 
off  among  the  gnarled  olive  trunks  and  their  attenu- 
ated sunset  shadows.  He  gained  the  open  ground, 
crossed  it,  plunging  through  heather,  and  disappeared 
round  a  corner  of  the  garden  wall. 

Jackdabos,  chin  to  the  ground,  lay  prone  in  a  bed 
of  violets,  watching  their  numberless  tops  quiver  be- 
tween sunlight  and  dusk.  He  listened.  There  came 
no  sound  whatever :  no  knocking  at  any  gate,  no  clink 
of  any  latch,  no  murmur  of  voices.    Time  dragged  by. 

**  What's  the  man  doing?"  he  began  to  wonder. 

With  his  nose  among  the  violets,  he  drew  a  long 


90  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

• 

breath  of  fragrance.  It  was  pleasant  to  watch  them 
thus  from  underneath,  to  see  their  little  shepherd- 
crook  stems  gilded  by  a  shaft  of  sunset,  to  think  how 
their  trembling  tops  resembled  dark  blue  winged  crea- 
tures ready  to  fly.  A  fancy  of  his  childhood  recurred : 
lying  so,  his  eyes  level  with  the  good  earth,  he  had 
often  pretended  he  was  a  fairy,  no  bigger  than  an 
ant,  wandering  valiantly  through  the  tall  green  for- 
est of  the  grass.  His  mind  could  still  enjoy  that  game, 
still  run  free  into  Lilliput. 

''How  easy  all  pleasure  is,  the  real  fun!"  he 
chuckled.  *'Why  do  people  hurry  after  it  and  fret? 
It  comes  to  you  waiting.    You  can't  go  catch  it.'' 

The  sun  went  down:  and  with  it  vanished  every 
glowing  color  from  his  violet  forest,  the  ruddiness 
died  off  the  gray  olive  trunks,  Goiffon's  house  grew 
pale  and  indistinct,  the  sea  below  turned  vaporous 
and  lost  all  lines  of  movement.  A  smoke-white  moon 
hung  above  the  mist.  Jackdabos  roused  on  his  el- 
bows, like  a  brown  Puck  listening  in  the  woods. 
Nightfall  and  its  chill  overtook  him,  the  treacherous 
fond  de  Vair  of  the  Riviera  made  him  shiver. 

''Where  the  dickens  has  Puig  gone?" 

Not  a  sound  came  from  the  house.  Had  he  per- 
formed his  duty,  there  must  have  come  many  sounds. 

"Has  he  dropped  dead,  then?" 

The  Jackdaw  sat  up,  shivering,  and  wrapped  his 
old  velveteen  jacket  more  snugly  about  him.     The 


THE  MAP  AND  THE  PLACE  91 

grove  had  become  too  cold  a  floor  to  lie  on.  He  leaned 
his  back  against  an  olive  bole. 

*'Puig*s  had  time  enough  to  shovel  np  that  plate 
and  run  with  it  from  here  to  Genoa.  But,  of  course, 
he  wouldn't.*' 

Such  faith  brought  its  reward.  The  garden  wall 
showed  a  mere  ghostly  blank  through  the  trees,  when 
from  beyond  it  came  a  thud  of  galloping  feet.  The 
runner,  a  shadow,  burst  into  the  grove. 

The  time  of  day  was  now,  as  the  saying  is,  between 
dog  and  wolf.  Twilight  so  darkened  the  grove  that 
Jackdabos  could  not  see  the  lineaments  of  this  man 
who  darted  toward  his  hiding-place.  It  was  Puig, 
by  the  voice,  and  Puig  in  a  strange  fit  of  excite- 
ment. 

**Jack,  Jackdaw;  where  are  you!  Come  here! 
This  is  too  much  for  me.  Something's  gone  wrong. 
What's  the  matter  with  that  house?" 

Jackdabos  jumped,  caught  the  speaker  by  his  arm, 
and  stayed  him  as  he  went  blundering  past.  The  arm 
held  a  trowel  straight  up  like  a  weapon  ready  for 
defense. 

'*Man  alive!"  cried  Puig,  stopping  short.  "Jack- 
dabos, tell  me,  quick,  what's  the  matter  with  that 
house?" 


CHAPTER  VIII 
goiffon's  garden 

Thet  stooped  forwb,rd,  peering  under  the  low- 
spread  blackness  of  the  grove. 

** Matter?''  returned  Jackdabos.  **Why,  what 
should  be?" 

Puig  drew  himself  together  palpably  in  the  dusk. 
Not  fear,  but  some  kindred  emotion,  some  panic  of 
surprise  had  overcome  him. 

**A  trap,*'  he  whispered.  **It's  a  trap.  The  back 
gate  stood  ajar.  I  went  in,  walked  through  the  gar- 
den, looking.  Nobody  there,  Jacko :  either  that  house 
has  got  a  murder  inside,  or  it's  baited  to  catch  us. 
Doors  and  windows  wide  open.  Walk  in,  help  your- 
self." He  shook  the  Jackdaw,  hissing  vehemently. 
**Not  a  soul  there!" 

Jackdabos  refused  to  catch  his  alarm. 

**A11  the  better  for  spade-work,  Puig.  Y  a  du  hon! 
Sounds  too  good  to  be  true ;  but  keep  your  eyes  peeled, 
and  in  we  go!" 

92 


GOIFFON'S  GARDEN  03 

Puig  remained  bent  under  the  olive  boughs,  heark- 
ening and  staring. 

**I'm  not  easy  upset,"  he  grumbled.  **But  wide 
open — ready  to  swallow  you — house  and  garden! 
That  ain't  luck,  don't  tell  me.  Too  good?  You  bet 
your  breeches.  Coming  dark,  and  not  a  soul.  That 
garden's  fair  set  like  a  rat-trap.*' 

His  doubt  infected  the  Jackdaw,  but  only  for  a 
moment.  Then  the  youngster  caught  him  by  the  hand, 
and  led  him,  like  an  unwilling  child,  forward  among 
the  olive  trees.  Outside  the  grove  they  halted  under 
an  evening  sky  of  which  the  brightness  puzzled  them, 
until  they  saw,  high  above  the  veiled  sea,  the  moon 
turning  faintly  golden.  The  heather  smelled  cool  and 
sweet  as  they  breasted  its  dark  tops  and  broke 
through.  Crossing  a  donkey-path,  they  reached  the 
glimmering  wall,  turned  its  corner  up-hill,  and  so 
slipped  along  its  darkest  face.  Here,  suddenly,  a 
band  of  moonlight  fell  athwart  their  way,  through 
the  back  gate. 

'  *  Open, "  said  Puig.  ' '  Wide  open. ' ' 
**So  I  see,"  quoth  Jackdabos:  **Pop  in." 
Next  ipoment  they  stood  together  in  GoifPon's  gar- 
den. So  carefully  and  slowly  had  they  come,  that 
already  the  moon  shone  clear  and  bright.  Revealing 
the  blue  of  the  sky  where  it  hung,  it  flooded  this 
walled  enclosure  with  such  radiance  as  made  every 
flower  distinct  in  the  masses  of  bloom.     The  trees, 


94  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

young  lemon-trees  formally  planted,  glistened  as 
though  their  leaves  were  glass  and  their  fruit  the 
treasure  of  the  Hesperides.  Serene  light,  long  shad- 
ows, immobility,  a  trance  of  quiet,  rendered  the  whole 
place  fabulous. 

*'We  stepped  into  a  dream,''  said  Jackdabos. 

**Hush!"  whispered  Puig,  listening  for  a  sound 
which  did  not  come. 

He  beckoned.  The  pair  moved  on  warily,  treading  a 
moonlit  carpet  of  fine  turf.  Wherever  the  path  wound 
across  their  course,  they  skipped  it  as  though  skipping 
a  brook.  Once  the  Jackdaw  knelt  down  to  scrutinize 
this  path. 

*'The  sand,''  he  whispered,  rising  again,  ''was 
brushed  to-day.    Some  one  lives  here. ' ' 

'*A  thing  to  beat  that,"  promised  his  companion. 
''Come,  look." 

Through  the  shadows  of  the  glistening  lemon-trees 
they  stole,  past  a  little  circular  fish-pond  that  con- 
tained a  deep,  cold  likeness  of  the  moon,  then  up 
three  stone  steps  to  a  flowery  terrace.  The  house, 
bleached  with  pale  light,  overgrown  with  a  black 
arabesque  of  vine-leaves  and  tendrils,  yawned  open 
before  the  marauders — a  row  of  doors  and  high  win- 
dows, all  open,  dark,  and  empty.  A  trellised  way  like 
a  tunnel,  on  the  right,  showed  at  the  end  of  its  vista 
another  gate,  the  front  gate  of  the  garden,  wide  open 
on  a  mountain  road. 


GOIFFON'S  GARDEN  95 

**Look/*  said  Puig,  drawing  the  Jackdaw  with  him 
to  the  main  door  of  the  house.  ** Don't  seem  right. 
Can't  be  right/' 

Indoors  they  saw  a  long,  low  chamber,  half-lighted 
by  the  greenish  mist  pouring  aslant  through  many 
windows.  Gilt  picture-frames,  the  curves  of  a  piano, 
corrugated  ranks  of  morocco  along  bookshelves,  caught 
threads  and  points  of  light  which  rendered  them  half 
familiar,  half  ghostly.  Into  the  brightest  window 
jutted  and  shone  the  corner  of  a  mahogany  table,  on 
which  stood,  lonely  and  brilliant,  a  huge  silver  pitcher. 

**You're  right,"  said  Jackdabos.     ''It's  queer." 

After  a  moment  of  watching,  he  added : 

'  *  That 's  a  bell  there  f    Ring  it. ' ' 

A  brass  knob  gleamed  at  the  edge  of  the  doorway 
vines.  Puig  gave  it  a  vigorous  pull,  which  was  loudly 
answered,  somewhere  within,  by  the  jangling  of  a  bell. 
Gradually  this  clangor  died  away.  It  brought  no  one, 
roused  no  movement,  produced  no  change  but  an  ap- 
parent deepening  of  the  silence. 

"Bah!"  cried  Jackdabos  aloud.  '* These  Pierrots 
here,  they  are  very  mysterious!  Hola!  Madam! 
Sir!    If  you  please  ..." 

His  voice  rang  in  the  deserted  room. 

**It's  no  good,"  declared  Puig. 

Jackdabos  put  his  fancy  to  work. 

''Perhaps,"  he  said,  **the  owner  has  killed  himself, 
and  the  servants  done  a  flit." 


96  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

*'Yes,"  mocked  the  other.  '*And  left  that  silver 
hogshead  for  tis  on  the  table." 

Jackdabos  nodded,  aclmowledging  the  argument. 

**Why  not?"  propounded  the  smith  suddenly. 
** Here's  a  house  full  of  stuff,  admission  free.  That's 
better  than  gold  plates  which  may  not  exist.  Shall 
we  have  a  go  at  it?  Inside?  Come,  these  people  de- 
serve to  lose  ..." 

The  Jackdaw  stared  at  his  tempter. 

**0  Puig,"  he  mourned.  *'My  dear  Puig,  if  we 
were  only  thieves,  now !  What  a  chance !  If  we  were 
minions  of  the  moon." 

** Thieves  anyhow,"  said  Puig.    ** Indoors  or  out." 

'*I'm  no  casuist,  I'm  only  a  digger." 

So  saying,  the  Jackdaw  snapped  his  fingers,  and 
broke  off  a  spell. 

*'Back  out!"  he  ordered.  ''Back!  This  is  no  time 
to  be  poets.  Along  with  me,  old  Burn-the-Wind, 
and  thank  the  good  fortune  however  it  comes. ' ' 

He  swept  a  farcical  bow  into  the  room,  then  turned 
and  ran  down  the  terrace,  through  the  lemon  trees, 
to  the  rear  wall  of  the  garden.  Here,  busy  as  a  ter- 
rier, he  darted  back  and  forth,  his  shadow  bobbing  on 
the  grass;  till  suddenly  he  found  what  he  wanted, 
and  motioned  the  waiting  Puig  to  draw  nearer. 

"Roman  ruin,"  he  whispered.  ** Where's  your 
tape-measure?" 

A  row  of  shrubs  and  climbing  flowers  lined  this 


GOIFFON'S  GARDEN  97 

wall,  mingled  with  ivy  here  and  there,  now  thick, 
now  sparse.  Out  from  the  thickest  ivy,  in  the  dark- 
est shadow,  protruded  the  crumbling  edges  of  a 
vaulted  arch,  built — as  the  men  saw  when  they  struck 
a  match — of  long,  thin  Roman  bricks.  Some  rich  man 
caused  it  to  be  built,  before  Pliny  wrote  his  letters; 
and  still  the  Roman  mortar  held  as  hard  as  flint. 

**Here,''  answered  Puig,  rummaging  his  pockets 
for  a  cheap  cloth-measure  bought  yesterday. 

**Roll  off  two  metres,''  commanded  the  Jackdaw, 
squatting  in  darkness.  *'Give  me  the  end.  Now 
draw  a  circle  with  your  trowel,  as  far  as  two  metres 
will  stretch.'' 

Puig  obeyed,  and  with  his  trowel-point  scratched 
a  curve  along  the  ground,  a  goodly  arc  of  a  circle, 
which  had  for  centre  the  Jackdaw's  thumb,  tight- 
pressed  against  the  corner  of  the  ruin.  This  arc 
ran  from"  wall  and  shrubbery,  across  the  bright  gray 
path,  into  the  midmost  gloom  of  the  vault.  No  sooner 
was  the  curve  drawn,  than  up  sprang  Jackdabos  to 
cut  a  fantastic  caper,  dancing,  flinging  his  legs  over 
the  moonlit  turf.    He  leaped  and  spun  like  a  goblin. 

*'Ah,  the  good  luck!"  Returning,  he  clapped  Puig 
on  the  shoulder.  **Your  circle,  dear  old  boy,  your 
circle  of  two  metres  radius  from  where  the  orange  tree 
grew — see !  It  cuts  the  path.  Of  course !  That  man 
who  hid  our  plate,  he  was  no  imbecile.    Of  course  it 


98  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

cuts  the  path;  for  nobody  digs  up  a  path,  my  child! 
Eh  ?    Nobody  but  us,  to-night ! ' ' 

He  suppressed  the  beginning  of  a  war  whoop, 
caught  Puig  round  the  waist,  spilled  him  on  the  grass, 
rolled  him  over  and  over  in  a  wrestling  match.  Puig 
fought  and  gurgled.  At  last  they  sat  up,  stared  at 
each  other,  and  regained  their  senses. 

'*Wait  till  I  get  my* weapon, ''  panted  the  Jack- 
daw. 

He  drew  from  his  hip-pocket  another  gardener's 
trowel,  Puig  seized  his  own  from  where  it  had  fallen, 
and  both  men,  kneeling  on  the  path,  began  to  dig  like 
badgers. 

The  top  crust  of  the  path,  under  its  powder  of 
neat  sand,  proved  to  be  sharp  rocks  tamped  hard  as 
frozen  ground.  Their  trowels  clinked  while  they 
broke  it.  Once  below  this  obstacle,  they  scooped  out 
the  native  hill-side  earth  with  ease,  but  so  fast  that 
they  panted  and  grew  hot  in  the  chill  evening  air. 
At  last  the  hole  grew  elbow-deep,  wider  than  a  grave 
and  half  as  long,  with  a  conical  mound  of  loam  casting 
black  shadow  into  it.  Now  and  again  the  men  ceased 
digging,  to  lower  a  lighted  match  within  the  pit,  but 
the  flame  showed  only  roots  and  a  few  angleworms. 

**Heavens!''  cried  Puig  all  at  once,  and  jumped 
backward  over  the  mound,  ready  to  run. 

The  ivy  covering  the  ruin  parted,  rustling.  It  was 
a  night  bird  which  passed  overhead — a  young  owl 


GOIFFON'S  GARDEN  99 

which  went  fluttering  round  the  garden  from  tree 
to  tree,  squeaking  like  a  deserted  puppy. 

Jackdabos  uttered  some  curse,  and  plied  his  trowel 
more  furiously  than  ever. 

*  *  Boys-oh ! ' '  he  muttered,  soon  afterward.  * '  We  Ve 
struck  it!    I  feel  the  thing.    Put  your  hand  down.*' 

Puig  launched  himself  head  and  shoulders  into  the 
pit.  His  fingers  met  the  Jackdaw's  there,  and  to- 
gether they  explored  by  sense  of  touch  a  hard,  knobby 
thing  protruding  near  the  bottom. 

''Root  again,"  said  Puig.    ''No.    A  stone?" 

It  was  neither,  for  amid  the  mould  their  fingers 
rasped  and  tore  a  bit  of  rotten  cloth. 

"Have  got!"  grunted  Jackdabos.  "Dig,  brothers, 
dig!" 

His  cheeks,  in  the  moonlight,  shone  with  running 
sweat. 

"Dig!"  he  cried  aloud. 

They  bent  into  the  hole,  clawing  and  cutting  each 
other  with  their  trowels.  Presently  the  bank  of  the 
little  pit  crumbled  and  caved.  The  mouldy  knob  had 
become  a  stratum,  a  curving  edge.  They  caught  this 
edge  and  hauled.  It  yielded,  stuck,  played  loose,  then 
came  suddenly  away  with  a  shower  of  clods,  and 
landed  between  them  as  they  rolled  on  the  turf,  legs 
to  the  moon. 

It  was  a  flat,  heavy  object  like  an  oval  shield,  coated 
and  caked  with  mud. 


100  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

They  dropped  it,  and  for  a  moment  sat  looking  sol- 
emnly back  and  forth,  up  and  down,  from  this  dirty 
treasure  to  the  triumph  which  their  eyes  proclaimed. 

**01d  Philibert,''  stammered  Jackdabos,  *'I  really 
believe  ..." 

The  smith  nodded,  breathless  and  speechless. 

'* Child,''  he  puffed  at  last,  ''you're  not  such  a  fool 
as  you  look." 

They  hitched  themselves  lamely  up  from  sitting  to 
standing.  It  was  Puig  who  lifted  the  muddy  shield 
from  the  grass. 

"Let's  be  off,"  said  he.    "Somebody  may  come." 

' '  No, ' '  Jackdabos  replied,  shaking  his  head.  '  *  Open 
the  bundle  first.    May  not  be  what  we  wanted. " 

"Good  words,"  Puig  admitted.  He  held  their  flat 
prize  toward  the  moon,  and  with  his  trowel  scraped 
off  the  thickest  mould,  like  a  cook  trimming  a  pie. 
"We  can't  afford  mistakes  now." 

He  had  drawn  his  pocket-knife  to  cut  the  rotten 
wrappings,  when  Jackdabos  gave  a  jump  and  tapped 
him  on  the  shoulder. 

"I  heard  feet  walking.  Look  sharp.  Out  we  go — 
the  back  gate." 

Puig  shut  his  knife,  dropped  his  trowel  quietly  on 
the  mound  of  loam,  and  tucked  the  shield-shaped 
parcel  under  his  arm.  Both  men  stared  cautiously 
round  the  garden.  Nothing  moved  among  the  fat 
shadows  of  the  lemon  trees.     Even  the  frightened 


GOIFFON'S  GARDEN  101 

owlet  had  taken  shelter  under  those  glossy  leaves,  and 
squeaked  no  more  complaints  to  the  moon. 

**Your  ears  are  sharper  than  mine/'  Puig  whis- 
pered. 

He  stole  away,  crouching,  along  the  grassy  border 
of  the  wall.  Jackdabos  followed,  on  tiptoe,  listen- 
ing. They  strung  up  their  sinews  for  a  dash  into  the 
heather.  Then,  reaching  the  gate,  they  paused  and  re- 
garded each  other  blankly. 

The  garden  gate  was  shut.  Where  they  had  en- 
tered so  free,  a  heavy  iron-studded  door  now  barred 
the  exit. 

**Wind.''  Puig's  thick  lips  formed  words  of  ex- 
planation in  the  moonlight.  **The  wind  blew  it 
shut." 

He  tried  the  latch,  carefully,  with  the  ease  of  a 
good  mechanic  who  knows  locks  and  fastenings.  The 
door  held.  Puig  shoved  it,  humored  it,  silently  pushed 
and  lifted. 

** Fastened,''  said  his  pouting  lips.  ''Locked  from 
outside." 

' '  There  wasn  't  any  wind, ' '  mouthed  Jackdabos.  ' '  I 
heard  somebody  there." 

They  instantly  withdrew,  and  began  studying  the 
wall  for  an  escalade ;  but  the  wall  reared  everywhere 
smooth  and  high,  crowned  with  bright  little  fangs  of 
bottle-glass  thickly  planted  in  cement.  To  cling  there, 
moreover,  was  to  hoist  one's  body  upon  the  most  con- 


102  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

spieuous  ledge  of  all  that  neighborhood,  and  into  the 
clearest  light. 

Puig  darted  once  more  to  the  back  gate,  vainly- 
struggled  with  the  latch,  and  made  a  hopeless  ges- 
ture. 

'  *  I  told  you, ' '  he  whispered,  returning.  '  *  I  told  you 
it  was  a  trap.'' 

The  Jackdaw  grew  hot  with  anger. 

* '  Baby ! "  he  retorted,  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  *  *  Cat 
of  discouragement,  you  drag  your  tail  in  the  sand  al- 
ways, and  now !  Every  house  has  a  front  gate,  I  be- 
lieve ?    Pull  your  feet ! ' ' 

They  started  with  a  bound,  and  ran  under  the  lemon 
trees,  past  the  cool,  golden  fish-pond,  up  the  terrace, 
and  along  the  shadowy  tunnel  of  the  grape  trellis, 
which  led  toward  the  front  wall,  the  seaward  gate  of 
Goijffon's  garden. 

But  here,  even  while  they  ran,  they  found  that 
running  would  not  avail  now.  The  front  gate  also 
had  been  closed,  but  something  worse  was  in  act  to 
happen.  Puig  had  guessed  only  too  well,  and  this 
garden  of  the  Hesperides  caught  them.  The  trap 
was  sprung. 


CHAPTER  IX 


MAN-TRAPS 


They  recoiled  not  a  moment  too  soon,  half-way 
down  the  leafy  tunnel.  Before  them  the  front  gate 
silently  swung  ajar,  then  opened  inward,  to  show  a 
tall  man  blocking  the  way. 

Puig  and  Jackdabos  flattened  themselves  among 
vines. 

For  a  moment  this  man  stood  peering  as  though  he 
saw  them  eye  to  eye ;  but  he  could  not  have  done  so, 
for  under  the  trellis  lay  tangles  of  black  and  white 
obscurity  too  thick  and  deceptive.  He  paused,  hold- 
ing the  latch.  The  gateway  framed  a  magical  picture 
of  three  distances  and  depths — a  white  road,  low  olive 
tops  fringing  the  mountain  spur,  and  beyond  these  a 
pale  moonshine  vapor  which  dissolved  both  sea  and 
sky. 

The  stranger,  holding  the  latch  at  arm's  length, 
turned  his  head,  raised  his  free  hand,  and  beckoned 
somebody  without.  His  bosom  flashed  white  as  he 
moved.     Three  burly  silhouettes  filled  the   road — 

103 


104  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

Italian  police,  with  admirals'  hats  and  carbines,  like 
figures  conjured  from  La  Tosca.  The  tall  man  in  the 
gate  consulted  them,  whispering. 

If  the  trap  had  sprung,  it  was  not  tamely  to  catch 
mice.  No  sooner  did  the  stranger  turn  his  face  away, 
than  Puig  and  the  Jackdaw  began  sliding  back  from 
pillar  to  vine,  from  vine  to  pillar,  quiet  as  a  pair  of 
black  spirits. 

*' Garden  too  bright, '*  breathed  one.  *^Into  the 
house.    Hide  in  a  cupboard,  or  else  .  .  /' 

*' Fight  'em,''  whispered  the  other. 

They  slipped  under  a  spiny,  low-hanging  palm,  and 
thence  to  the  house  door  where  formerly  they  had 
rung  the  bell  and  shouted.  Now  they  backed  slowly 
into  the  room,  hearing  a  crunch  of  heavy  boots  ap- 
proach under  the  trellis. 

' '  Caught  ? ' '  sighed  Puig. 

His  young  companion  said  nothing,  but  gave  a 
glance  behind,  then  suddenly  pinched  his  elbow. 
Puig  turned,  and  saw  what  the  Jackdaw  had  just 
seen.     The  long  chamber,  this  time,  was  not  empty. 

At  the  table  where  the  silver  pitcher  gleamed,  sat 
a  man.  A  large  man,  sprawling  at  length  in  a  high, 
mediaeval  chair,  he  sat  with  his  back  toward  them, 
and  pensively  regarded  the  moonlight  through  a 
window.  While  they  watched  him,  he  roused,  but 
without  turning,  and  listened  to  the  footsteps  out- 
doors.   Then  he  reached  for  his  pitcher.    There  stood 


MAN-TRAPS  105 

a  glass  ready  to  hand,  but  he  lifted  the  great  silver 
weight  like  a  trifle  and  drank  from  it  magnifi- 
cently. 

*'Lazy  beggar!"  said  Jackdabos  under  his  breath. 
He  laughed  silently,  despair  of  their  own  case  ren- 
dering him  light-hearted.  **Lazy  devil!  That's 
pukka!    That's  the  kind  of  rich  man  to  be." 

The  heavy  boots  came  scuffing  the  garden  stairs,  di- 
rectly up  the  terrace,  to  the  house.  Puig,  with  his 
long  bundle  under  his  armpit,  looked  wildly  about 
the  room,  then  slid  into  a  corner  of  the  bookcases. 
Jackdabos  promptly  ranged  himself  alongside.  They 
waited  there,  among  the  darkest  moonlight  glimmer- 
ings, ready  to  give  battle  or  run. 

"Hallo,  old  man,"  hailed  an  English  voice  from 
the  door,  cheerful  and  friendly.  ''I  did  my  part.  If 
anyone's  prowling  round  your  garden  to-night,  weVe 
bottled  him." 

A  tall  shape  entered  the  room — a  shape  who  bore 
the  long,  white  bosom  of  evening  dress. 

''Bring  your  men  up,  Alfredo,"  it  continued  af- 
fably. **I  thought  I  saw  our  gentry  come  sneaking 
this  way." 

The  three  carbineers  crowded  the  door  with  their 
admirals'  hats.  As  they  did  so,  the  man  at  the  table 
plumped  down  his  silver  jug,  and  smacked  his  lips. 

'*0h,  water!  Fountain  of  health!"  he  exclaimed, 
in  a  hearty,  familiar  barjrtone.    *'I  do  love  to  come 


106  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

home  to  this  Alpine  spring  of  mine.  If  'twas  only- 
wicked  to  drink  water,  how  fine  it  would  be!  Good 
evening,  neighbor.  Switch  the  lamp  on,  wiU  you, 
please  r' 

The  click  of  an  electric  button  answered  these 
words.  At  once  the  dream-like  mist  in  the  room  be- 
came an  aching  glare,  a  flood  of  common  light.  Jack- 
dabos  and  Puig,  night-birds  penned  in  a  corner,  stood 
blinking. 

''Here  they  are.  I  thought  so,"  declared  the  tall 
man  in  evening  clothes.  He  was  a  lean  Englishman, 
gray-haired,  not  young,  not  old,  whose  long,  delicate, 
beardless  face  and  smiling  gray  eyes  turned  on  the 
wrong-doers  with  neither  malice  nor  mercy.  "Here 
they  are,  and  a  naughty  pair,  too.  Shall  we  tackle 
'em?    Do  you  want  a  row  in  here?" 

He  spoke  to  the  man  in  the  high-backed,  mediaeval 
chair,  who  lazily  began  to  rise.  The  three  policemen 
stolidly  blocked  the  door.  Puig  showed  his  teeth  like 
a  rat,  and  seemed  doubtful  whether  to  draw  the  knife 
from  his  hip,  or  yield.  Jackdabos,  crossing  his  arms, 
looked  on. 

''No,  I  hate  rows,"  yawned  the  water-drinker, 
standing  up  and  shoving  his  chair  away.  **No,  Al- 
fredo, not  to-night;  it  was  a  mistake.  A  great  mis- 
take. These  two  gentlemen  are  friends  of  mine  whom 
I  expected." 


MAN-TRAPS  107 

He  faced  them  while  he  spoke, — a  slow,  amiable, 
black-bearded  giant. 

It  was  Barjavel. 

A  moment  of  stupefaction  followed.  Then  Puig 
hurled  his  flat  bundle  clattering  on  the  floor. 

** Singed!''  he  cried.  ** Burnt  and  betrayed.  You 
played  us  for  fools.    Damn  the  rich,  anyhow!'' 

But  Jackdabos  bent  double  and  laughed  himself 
into  a  spasm  of  coughing. 

"You  old  Assyrian  bull!"  he  whooped.  **You 
simply  came  here  and  waited  for  us!  I  have  seen 
farces  in  my  day  ..." 

He  ran,  caught  Barjavel  by  the  shoulders,  and  shook 
him,  transported  with  delight.  Barjavel  smiled  like 
the  father  of  a  prodigal  son. 

'*If  you,"  said  he,  addressing  the  policemen  over 
the  Jackdaw's  head,  ''will  go  shout  for  Ren6  at  the 
back  gate,  he  will  furnish  you,  my  friends,  with  a 
little  supper.  Rene  is  the  cook,  and  a  remarkably 
good  one." 

The  three  carbineers  touched  their  great  hats,  and 
filed  outdoors.  Alfredo,  their  leader,  a  roly-poly  Ven- 
timiglian  with  huge  mustaches,  winked  solemnly  at 
Jackdabos  as  he  went.    The  wink  was  returned. 

*'He  arrested  me  once,"  the  Jackdaw  explained. 

*'It  does  him  honor,"  said  Barjavel,  lightly  em- 
bracing and  releasing  the  Jackdaw.  '*And  now,"  he 
continued,  with  a  gesture  of  welcome,  ''let's  be  com- 


108  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

fortable.  Won't  you  light  the  fire,  my  son?  The 
room  has  grown  chilly. ' ' 

He  went  about  closing  windows  and  glass  doors, 
drawing  curtains,  placing  chairs  round  the  table. 
Jackdabos  knelt  on  the  hearth,  and  skilfully  lighted 
a  fire  of  houlets.  The  gray-haired  Englishman,  like 
one  who  knew  the  ways  of  that  house,  fetched  a  tall, 
many-branched  silver  candlestick  and  set  it  by  Bar- 
j  a  vers  chair. 

'^Switchojffr'saidhe. 

**  Please.    I  loathe  electricity,  *'  replied  Barjavel. 

A  moment  later  they  were  ready  to  sit  down  by 
pleasant  candle-light.  Only  Puig  hung  aloof,  and 
glowered,  and  sulked. 

**What!''  cried  the  friendly  giant.  *'Puig,  man, 
you  thought  me  a  traitor?  Nonsense,  never.  Join 
us.  The  police  merely  came  to  see  that  the  wrong 
persons  didn't  walk  off  with  this  house.  They've  gone 
— drinking  in  the  kitchen  by  now.  Come,  your  chair. 
What  luck?" 

*^We  got  it,"  grinned  the  Jackdaw. 

Puig  emitted  a  grunt,  stooped,  took  from  the  floor 
his  muddy  prize,  stalked  across  with  it,  flung  it  on 
the  table  and  himself  into  a  chair. 

*'We  got  something,"  he  amended,  sceptically.  His 
green  eyes  surveyed  the  room  with  envious  contempt, 
and  seemed  to  find  a  personal  affront  in  the  English- 


MAN-TRAPS  109 

man's  clean  linen.  ''Open  it  if  you  want  to.  IVe 
been  made  a  fool  plenty  long  enough. ' ' 

Jackdabos,  radiant,  whipped  out  his  pen-knife. 

"Shall  I?*'  he  asked,  reaching  for  the  mouldy 
bundle  on  the  mahogany. 

*  *  Wait.  Hold  on,  * '  commanded  Puig  morosely.  * '  I 
thought  our  secret  lay  among  three.  Who's  your 
fourth  r' 

The  Englishman  calmly  began  shoving  his  chair 
away. 

''I'll  trot  home  if  you  like,"  he  offered. 

Barjavel  stayed  him  with  a  glance. 

"Puig's  better  than  his  manners,"  stated  the 
giant.  "His  question  is  a  fair  question.  I'll  answer 
it.  Boys,  this  gentleman  knows  more  about  bronze, 
gold,  and  silver,  ancient  or  modern,  than  any  other 
person  alive.  His  opinion  will  be  worth  having,  in 
case  we  can  show  him  anything  fit  for  considera- 
tion." 

The  gray-haired  stranger  leaned  forward  and 
lighted  a  cigarette  amid  the  little  forest  of  candles. 

* '  Handsome  of  you, ' '  he  drawled.  ' '  Go  on,  my  son. 
Cut  the  cake,  you're  the  youngest." 

Jackdabos  slit  with  his  knife  the  muddy  envelope. 
Heavy  tarred  canvas  it  was,  well  sewn  with  cobbler's 
twine,  but  so  rotten  that  it  flew  apart  like  cheese- 
cloth, and  sent  crumbs  of  earth  showering  the  ma- 
hogany.   Then  appeared  a  bluish  wrapping  of  tear' 


110  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

lead,  which  the  Jackdaw  quickly  unfolded.  The  third 
cerement  was  oiled  silk,  yellow  and  blotched  as  if  with 
sweat,  but  tough.  The  pen-knife  blade  ripped  this 
from  end  to  end,  with  a  gritty  noise  that  set  the  men's 
teeth  on  edge.  Inside  the  gap  thus  made,  Jackdabos 
fumbled  for  a  while. 

''There!''  he  cried,  and  tore  away  silk  remnants 
from  something  which  gleamed.  He  flung  the  wrap- 
pings on  the  floor.    *' What '11  you  bet?" 

''Great  guns!"  murmured  the  Englishman,  forget- 
ting to  smoke.    ''Troy  town!" 

All  four  jostled  their  heads  together  and  stared. 

Before  them  lay  an  oval  platter  of  dull  gold,  as 
large  as  an  ordinary  serving-tray.  The  edge  was  a 
crusted  garland  of  golden  leaves,  laurel  and  myrtle 
interwoven;  the  rest,  a  glorious  theatre  of  human 
forms  crowded  into  action,  like  the  shield  of  Achilles. 
Jackdabos  and  his  knife  had  cut  the  ancient  world 
open.  Troy  stood  midmost  in  the  gold,  its  high  walls 
breasting  the  surge  of  the  Greek  army,  well-greaved 
and  helmeted  Achaians  whose  waves  broke  power- 
fully under  the  Scsean  gate.  Above  the  battlements, 
outshining  Priam  and  his  elders,  enthroned,  a  lost 
and  lovely  queen,  sat  Helen  looking  for  her  brothers. 
She  yearned  for  them  and  feared  them.  They  would 
never  reproach  her.  They  were  dead,  and  buried  in 
the  dear  soil  of  Sparta,  their  native  land.  But  like 
her  dream  and  memory  of  their  young  splendor,  to 


MAN-TRAPS  111 

right  and  left  of  the  siege  appeared  her  brothers  as 
Helen  had  known  them — the  great  Twin  Brethren, 
Castor  taming  furious  horses,  Pollux  boxing  with  a 
king.  A  flight  of  doves  crossed  the  curving  sky,  Troy- 
ward  bound  from  Cyprus ;  and  rimming  the  bottom  of 
this  plate  in  a  script  as  beautiful  as  any  of  the 
moulded  limbs  above,  ran  the  lines : 

"Sic  te  diva  pot  ens  Cypri 
Sic  fratres  Helenae,  lucida  sidera.  .  .  ," 

Barjavel  stood  up  and  blew  like  a  dolphin.  The 
Englishman  ran  his  fingers,  burning  cigarette  and  all, 
through  his  gray  hair.  Puig  lifted  the  plate  greedily, 
weighed  it  in  each  hand,  then  put  it  down.  Jackda- 
bos,  coolest  of  the  company,  was  the  first  to  speak. 

** Helen's  legs,"  he  observed,  '*are  the  legs  of  the 
Fontainebleau  Nymph.  And  what  helmets!  Oh,  my 
goUyl- 

Until  now  the  Englishman  had  shown  no  curiosity, 
nothing  more  than  a  polite  tolerance,  toward  his 
captives;  but  on  hearing  these  words,  he  sat  erect, 
darted  one  glance  at  the  sunburnt  Jackdaw,  met  his 
glowing  eyes,  nodded,  and  thenceforward,  though 
studying  the  golden  wonder  close  and  hard,  spoke 
only  to  the  Jackdaw,  as  friend  to  friend. 

'*Your  view  of  Helen's  legs  is  very  sound  and 
Bcholarly,"  he  rejoined,  smiling.     **  They 're  draped, 


112  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

of  course,  and  the  Nymph's  are  not.  But  all  the 
same  .  .  .'*  After  more  study  of  the  plate,  with 
muttered  exclamations,  he  launched  into  a  rapid  tech- 
nical discourse  which  ran  for  a  quarter  hour,  and 
which  two  of  his  hearers  admired  greatly  without 
understanding  a  word.  ''Yes,''  he  concluded,  wring- 
ing his  long  fingers  in  satisfaction.  ''Not  one  of  the 
books  ever  mentioned  this,  not  Cellini  himself — 
there's  the  puzzle!  That  chatterbox,  never  to  drop  a 
hint  about  any  such  design.  Incredible ! — But  young- 
ster, you  hit  it.  Helen's  figure  is  the  same,  done 
from  the  same  model,  I'll  stake  my  head:  from  that 
little  wild  brunette  girl  Jeanne — ^what's  her  name, 
poor  young  thing? — ^the  Scorzone." 

Again  the  lecturer  sought  Jackdabos  with  his  eyes. 
He  leaned  back,  smiling  thoughtfully,  as  if  he  had 
found  the  young  man  more  problematic  than  the 
plate. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  boomed  Barjavel,  striding 
up  and  down  the  floor,  "that  it  really  is  Cellini?" 

The  Englishman  nodded. 

''Unmistakably,"  he  answered.  "Made  in  France, 
by  Benvenuto,  for  Francis  I.  Look,  by  the  way," 
and  he  pointed  to  the  golden  door  of  Troy,  "there's 
the  king's  own  salamander. — Oh,  it's  quite  all  right. 
The  greatest  find  of  our  day,  my  friends." 

Jackdabos  bent  down  and  became  absorbed. 

"Salamander's  badly  done/'  he  murmured,    "The 


MAN-TRAPS  113 

only  one  thing  wrong,  though,  for  all  the  rest  is  per- 
fect.   But  his  curves  ought  to  go  like  this." 

Dipping  his  hand  into  the  silver  pitcher,  the  young 
critic  sketched  with  wet  finger-tip  a  design  on  the 
mahogany. 

**I'd  bend  that  salamander  so.*' 

The  Englishman  whistled  under  his  breath. 

** Right  again,'*  said  he,  in  amazement.  ** Where 
did  you  learn  these  things?** 

** Making  graveyard  statues,**  replied  the  Jackdaw 
impatiently,  as  though  everyone  made  them,  **and 
goldsmithing  a  bit,  and  doing  pottery.  Bah!  You 
know.    Odd  jobs,  that  kind  of  rot.'* 

He  was  lost  again  in  the  world  of  Troy,  Helen's 
contemporary,  sharing  her  present  woe  and  her  mem- 
ories of  the  far-off  brethren. 

"The  Twins  always  were  my  favorite  gods,"  he 
meditated.  **If  a  fellow  prayed  hard  to  *em,  could 
he  manage  one  piece  half  so  fine  as  this  before  he 
died?" 

With  the  air  of  a  righteous  man  who  had  endured 
enough  nonsense,  Puig  grasped  the  gold  platter  and 
weighed  it  once  more.  His  mustache  bristled  with 
calcidation. 

** What's  it  worth?"  he  demanded.  '*Set  a  fair 
price  for  us.    We  might  get  cheated." 

The  scholar  shook  his  gray  head. 


114  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

*'No  price/'  he  answered,  looking  distantly  among 
the  candle  flames. 

**Whatr'  yelled  Puig.  ''It's  real,  ain't  it?  You 
said  so.'* 

''More  real  than  you  or  I,"  said  the  English- 
man, coldly.    "Its  value  is  what  the  owner  thinks/' 

The  blacksmith  jeered  as  he  set  the  gleaming  legend 
down. 

"Well,  just  so.  We're  the  owners,  and  we  want  to 
kaow  what  to  think." 

' '  Owners  ? ' '  Jaekdabos  cried  in  hot  disdain.  ' '  You 
fool,  nobody  can  own  a  thing  like  that,  any  more 
than  a  mountain  or  a  star.'' 

The  Englishman  glanced  over  to  where  Barjavel 
bestrode  the  fireplace.  Barjavel  acknowledged  his 
glance.  Together,  like  secret  judges,  they  watched  this 
angry,  mud-stained  couple  brawling  over  their  for- 
tune. 

"Neighbor,"  propounded  Barjavel,  mildly,  as  if  to 
change  the  subject,  "how  do  you  like  the  man-trap  I 
set  in  my  garden?" 

His  neighbor  laughed  with  a  quiet  relish. 

"Humph!"  said  he.    "You  caught  one." 


CHAPTER  X 


EXEUNT   OMNES 


Once  more  they  had  gathered  in  conclave  round 
the  Trojan  plate,  and  sat  speechless,  intent,  in  vari- 
ous eager  postures  of  admiration,  when  suddenly  the 
Jackdaw  wriggled  from  his  chair  and  left  the  group. 
All  eyes  turned  to  watch  him.  Straight  from  the  end 
of  the  table,  quick  and  soft-footed,  he  reached  a  door 
at  the  innermost  corner  of  the  room.  There  he  stood, 
listening,  cocking  his  head  against  a  panel. 

''Eh?'*  said  Barjavel. 

Jackdabos,  with  a  flash  of  his  black  Egyptian  eyes, 
warned  them  to  go  on  talking. 

*' A  gorgeous  evening,'* declared  the  giant, promptly. 
*'YouVe  no  idea  what  a  lark  it  is  to  have  old  cronies 
drop  in.  About  time,  don't  you  think,  for  a  little 
supper?    As  for  drinkables  ..." 

He  rambled  through  a  bountiful  inventory  of  his 
cellar,  while  Puig  and  the  Englishman  forced  a  few 
comments.  All  at  once,  Jackdabos  twisted  the  knob 
and  jerked  the  door  open. 

115 


116  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

A  black  corridor,  so  far  as  the  candle-light  would 
reach,  yawned  empty.  Jackdabos  craned  his  neck, 
leaned  into  the  darkness,  listened  again,  then  softly 
closed  the  door. 

Got  away-, ' '  he  said,  returning  to  lean  against  the 
table,  his  lips  quirked  in  their  odd  smile,  but  his 
brows  contracted.  *  *  The  man  *s  gone.  Must  have  been 
his  going  that  I  heard.'' 

Mild  reflections  from  the  sculptured  gold  played 
on  his  face  while  he  stood  thinking. 

"Puig,''  he  demanded  suddenly,  ''where  did  you 
leave  your  trowel  ? ' ' 

''Chucked  her  down,''  replied  the  smith,  staring. 
"Why  not?" 

"No  reason  why  not.  Stuck  mine  into  that  ivy," 
mused  the  Jackdaw.  "Doesn't  matter.  The  hole's 
there.  And  Alfredo's  patrol  was  ordered  to  call  your 
cook,  Barjavel,  from  the  back  gate.  If  they  found 
the  hole,  now?" 

Barjavel  wagged  his  beard  thoughtfully. 

"No  harm  done,"  said  he.  "Gardeners  dig  holes, 
even  lazy  gardeners  like  mine." 

"We're  in  Italy,"  retorted  the  youngster.  "Al- 
fredo's a  jolly  round  man,  but  no  fool.  Gardeners, 
moreover,  don't  dig  holes  in " 

A  sound  of  footsteps  coming  along  the  corridor 
broke  short  his  explanation.  Jackdabos  leaped  back, 
made  a  downward  swoop,  amassed  the  muddy  wrap- 


EXEUNT  OMNES  117 

pings  from  the  floor,  and  stuffed  them  behind  a  row 
of  red  morocco  bindings  on  a  bookshelf.  Next  mo- 
ment, somebody  tapped  at  the  door.  Before  the  tap- 
ping ceased,  Jackdabos  lunged  halfway  across  the 
table,  reached  with  both  arms,  and  recovered  like  a 
fencer.  A  broad  gleam  passed  through  the  air,  over 
the  swaying  candle  flames.  Helen  of  Troy  vanished  in 
a  golden  mist. 

**Come!''  cried  Barjavel. 

The  door  opened.  Alfredo  the  Ventimiglian  showed 
his  plump  red  face,  huge  mustachios,  and  twinkling 
eyes.  He  entered  with  a  gesture  of  apology,  and 
tucking  his  pompous  hat  under  one  arm,  closed  the 
door,  beside  which  he  placed  his  roly-poly  figure  at 
attention,  an  easy,  fat  man 's  attention,  not  even  half- 
military.    He  excused  himself,  no  one  more  polite. 

*'I  came  to  thank  you,  sir/'  he  said,  bowing  toward 
Barjavel.  *'My  men  and  I  are  about  to  leave.  We 
enjoyed  your  supper,  and  wish  you  a  felicitous 
night.'' 

**Good  night,  my  friend,"  the  giant  sleepily 
drawled.    **You  found  all  to  your  satisfaction?" 

Alfredo  smiled  a  merry  snxile  which  tilted  his  buf- 
falo-horn mustache. 

**Ecco!  Abundantly,  sir,"  he  reported,  and  turned 
to  go.  **By  the  way,"  he  added,  with  his  hand  on  the 
door-jamb,  **we  discovered  someone  had  been  digging 


118  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

recently  near  your  ruin.  I  suppose  it^s  all  right, 
sirr^ 

Barjavel  yawned. 

**  Quite,  thanks.  My  gardener  had  word  to  spade 
up  a  new  flower-bed.  Lazy  fellow,  I  dare  say  he 
didn't  finish  his  work  before  night.'* 

Alfredo's  merry  smile  grew  broader. 

**I  dare  say  not,  sir,"  he  agreed,  lingering  on  the 
threshold.  **The  fact  is,  your  gardener  may  have 
misunderstood  you;  for  he  made  his  excavation  in 
the  path,  and  not  with  a  spade,  but  a  trowel.  I 
nearly  broke  my  shins.    Lucky  I  'm  fat. ' ' 

He  laughed,  and  cast  a  look  of  great  friendliness 
round  the  company.  Barjavel  sat  unmoved,  as 
though  he  had  finished  a  trivial  conversation;  the 
Englishman  started  another  cigarette,  and  calmly  be- 
gan reading  a  book  by  candle-light;  but  Puig,  wary 
and  sullen,  glowered  the  defiance  of  a  man  who  ex- 
pects to  be  hauled  into  custody.  As  for  Jackdabos, 
he  stood  in  the  best  available  shadow,  listening 
quietly,  with  arms  folded.  No  one  could  have 
guessed  what  golden  loveliness  he  hugged,  like  a 
breastplate,  under  his  velveteen  jacket.  No  one  could 
fail,  however,  to  spy  the  mud  clotted  on  his  elbows, 
or  the  earthy  smears  which  rendered  Puig's  face 
more  haggard  than  its  wont. 

**Good  night,  gentlemen,"  purred  Alfredo,  brush- 
ing the  magnificent  hat. 


EXEUNT  OMNES  119 

"^Good  night/'  the  culprits  answered,  in  various 
tones. 

**Glad  to  meet  you  again,  old  one,''  added  the 
Jackdaw. 

*'It  was  a  pleasant  surprise  to  see  yow,"  Alfredo 
chuckled.  **I  hope  I  may  have  the  honor  repeated — 
soon!" 

He  scattered  largess  of  cheerful  nods,  and  took  his 
departure,  smiling. 

**Soon,  by  all  means!"  called  Jackdabos,  running 
to  the  door.  **We  must  talk  over  old  times.  I'm 
bound  south,  you  know.  May  I  look  you  up  to-mor- 
row at  Ventimiglia?" 

"Ecco!*^  answered  the  policeman's  voice,  amiably, 
from  the  dark  corridor. 

Jackdabos  closed  the  door,  and  made  a  wry  face. 
For  a  time  no  one  spoke.    Then  Barjavel  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  and  inquired : 
'*AU  serene?" 

Jackdabos,  frowning,  shook  his  head. 
'*Not  a  bit  of  it.    Alfredo  is  0-N,  on." 
The  Englishman  laid  his  book  down. 
** Right,"  he  observed,  very  dryly.     ''If  Alfredo 
overheard  my  lecture  on  Benvenuto,  you'll  never 
carry  that  thing  out  of  Italy;  not,  at  any  rate,  past 
him.     Alfredo  speaks  half  a  dozen  languages,  and 
he's  far  from  deaf.    Italian  soil  is  a  ticklish  material 
to  scratch.     There's  a  Government  after  its  kind, 


120  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

and  something  like  a  Commission  of  Arts/'  He 
stretched  out  his  long  shanks,  and  gripped  the  arms 
of  his  chair,  ready  to  rise,  *'Now  youVe  got  it,*'  he 
asked,  quizzically,  *' aren't  you  lost?" 

Barjavel  soon  dismissed  that  question. 

**I  claim  no  part  in  it,"  he  boomed.  ''I  wash  my 
hands  of  the  whole  affair." 

The  tall  Englishman  rose. 

'* Pontius  Pilate  was  not  altogether  an  ass,"  he 
laughed.  *'I  do  the  same.  Good  night,  gentlemen. 
No,  thanks,  no  supper.  The  hour 's  late.  Time  elderly 
devils  went  to  bed."  He  lounged  across  the  room, 
parted  a  brocade  curtain  which  covered  the  glass 
door,  and  became  a  shadow  on  the  moonlit  terrace. 
'*Let  me  know  how  you  dispose  your  booty,"  he 
called,  from  without.  ''This  happens  only  once  in  a 
dozen  generations." 

Barjavel  locked  the  glass  door  carefully,  drew  the 
heavy  brocade  into  place,  then  came  and  took  his 
friends  one  by  each  hand.  They  moved  toward  the 
fireplace,  where  for  a  time  they  remained,  searching 
one  another's  face  in  the  glow  cast  by  the  ruddy 
houlets.  Jackdabos  kept  his  free  arm  across  his  breast, 
holding  the  Trojan  plate  concealed.  Puig  scratched 
his  head  and  pouted  at  the  fire. 

*'Good  boys,  both,"  said  Barjavel,  with  emotion. 
' '  Good  boys. ' '   His  large  gray  eyes  glittered  solemnly. 


EXEUNT  OMNES  121 

"I'm  glad  of  your  success.  The  thing  is  all  your  own. 
And  now,  what  next?" 

The  blacksmith  saw  lions  in  the  way. 

'*Too  much  moonlight.  We  can't  get  back  into 
France  by  the  way  we  came;  and  to-morrow  this 
Italian  jackass  will  have  men  watching  the  whole  bor- 
der line.  He  knows.  God  bless  our  luck,  he  knows  I 
It's  your  fault,  Barjavel,  for  you  called  him  here. 
You  couldn't  trust  us." 

'*And  thou,  Jacko?"  asked  the  giant. 

*'Made  in  France."  Jackdabos  rapped  his  breast, 
which  gave  a  sound  like  muffled  armor.  **Made  in 
France  for  a  French  king.  It  never  was  meant  to  stay 
in  Italy.    Over  the  border  we  go." 

'*How?"  the  other  two  demanded. 

**0n  our  feet,"  he  replied.  **It  is  thus,  brothers. 
Two  courses,  as  you  and  I  and  Alfredo  know,  lie 
open  to  us :  either  we  keep  the  treasure  here  in  this 
house  a  while,  or  we  run  it  out  of  the  country  at  once. 
If  we  keep  it  here,  we're  lost:  that's  only  a  question 
of  time,  of  police  work,  watching.  If  we  run  it  out 
to-night,  the  shortest  way,  we'll  run  plump  into  Al- 
fredo's arms,  anywhere  between  this  fireplace  and 
Torrent  Saint  Louis.  His  men  are  doggo  in  the 
heather,  or  else  picketting  the  olive  grove.  Now,  you 
heard  me  tell  Alfredo  that  we  were  bound  south,  and 
would  call  on  him  at  Ventimiglia. " 

Puig  and  Barjavel  nodded. 


122  THE  KEY  OP  THE  FIELDS 

"Because  whyT'  said  Puig. 

The  Jackdaw  smiled. 

"Because  Alfredo  is  very  subtle,  for  a  policeman. 
He  knows  from  Holy  Writ  that  all  men  are  liars,  and 
from  experience  that  I'm  a  fairly  good  one.  So 
what's  Alfredo  thinking,  outdoors  in  the  heather?" 
Jackdabos  looked  very  young  and  ingenuous  while  he 
posed  this  question.  "Why,"  he  continued,  "our 
dear  Alfredo  thinks  we'll  do  the  contrary,  we'll  go, 
not  south,  but  back  to  France.  I'm  such  a  rotten 
liar,  don't  you  see?  The  last  thing  he  dreams  of,  is 
that  I  told  an  honest  fact,  and  that  we're  bound  for 
Ventimiglia  direct  as  fast  as  boot-leather  will  carry." 

"But  man,"  objected  the  smith,  "you're  only  fall- 
ing in  deeper  then, — further  into  the  damned  Italy." 

"Oh,  bosh!"  cried  the  Jackdaw.  "Can't  you  fol- 
low? It's  a  jolly  old  circumbendibus.  We  spoke  the 
truth  to  Alfredo.  Great  is  the  truth,  and  doth  per- 
vail;  for  at  Ventimiglia  we  turn  due  north  for  the 
Alps,  shoot  up  the  valley  of  the  Roia,  leg  it  like  the 
devil  on  stilts,  cross  the  frontier  this  side  o'  Breil — 
swim  the  river  if  we  must,  but  I  know  a  better  way — 
then  grrimp  the  mountain  rocks  up  over  the  Col  de 
Brouis — and  so,  early  to-morrow  morning,  drop  easy 
as  a  bird  into  Sospel,  safe  and  hearty  in  good  old 
France." 

The  beauty  of  this  plan,  or  the  firelight,  or  both, 
made  his  dark  face  glow  like  a  girl's.    Puig  and  the 


EXEUNT  OMNES  123 

giant,  watching  him,  caught  something  of  his  ardor. 

"Not  so  bad,*'  observed  the  one.  '*Your  braina 
live  too  near  your  hat,  but  theyVe  all  there." 

** Excellent!"  proclaimed  the  other.  **I  foresee  a 
night  that  has  some  fun  in  it.    Wait  half  a  jiffy." 

So  saying,  Barjavel  released  his  friends,  and  ran  to 
the  door  of  the  passage-way. 

**Tie  up  your  bundle,  meantime,"  he  called,  as  he 
disappeared  into  the  darkness.  "Newspapers  and 
twine  are  in  that  box-seat  under  the  window.  Get 
ready  to  jump,  while  I  see  Bene." 

He  was  off  to  the  kitchen.  Jackdabos  wasted  no 
time,  but  whipped  froln  his  bosom  the  gold  plate,  and 
laid  it  on  the  table.  Then,  kneeling  by  the  window- 
box  in  question,  he  flung  back  the  lid,  pulled  out  a 
rustling  armful  of  printed  sheets,  and  rose  to  work. 
A  moment  his  quick  fingers  played,  and  there  lay 
Cellini's  grandeur  as  a  flat,  thick,  commonplace  pack- 
age, wrapped  in  several  dozen  copies  of  Figaro  and 
Le  Petit  Marseillais. 

**Barjavers  a  keen  old  dog,"  he  mumbled,  as  he  bit 
the  loose  twine  off  the  knots.  ''Nobody  looks  twice 
at  a  newspaper  parcel." 

Puig  took  it  under  his  arm,  jealously.  They  recov- 
ered their  caps,  and  stood  waiting,  while  overhead  a 
rumble  of  voices  and  footsteps  travelled  through  the 
upper  chambers  of  the  house.  Soon  afterward,  Bar- 
javel came  laughing  into  the  room  and  joined  them. 


124  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

He  wore  the  old  black  rumpled  serge  clothes  in  which 
they  had  first  seen  him  by  the  roadside. 

* '  Ready  ? ' '  said  he.  ' '  All 's  well.  Rene  has  lighted 
the  whole  top  storey  as  if  we  were  going  to  bed.  Our 
Italian  friends  will  watch  those  windows  till  lights 
out,  of  course.  Hope  they  won't  catch  cold  in  their 
ambush.    Come  on.    Douse  the  glim.*' 

He  swept  his  broad  felt  hat  over  the  candles,  and 
all  was  dark  except  the  ruddiness  from:  the  coal  fire. 
Then,  with  a  chink  of  curtain-rings  gliding  on  a  rod, 
one  end  of  the  room  became  a  pale  chequered 
lattice.  Barjavel's  big  shadow  moved  against  the 
moonlight,  opening  this  window — a  tall,  wide  eastern 
window  which  looked  away  from  France,  sheer  down 
over  house  and  garden  wall. 

''Fourteen  foot  drop,*'  he  whispered.  ''Are  you 
gameT' 

Jackdabos  climbed  on  the  sill. 

''I'll  go  first,"  he  murmured.  "Puigo,  toss  your 
baby  down  when  I  give  you  the  word." 

"Jump  into  that  black  spot,"  advised  BarjaveL 
"It's  genevrier.** 

The  Jackdaw  spun  out  of  the  window,  and  landed 
crashing  in  the  shadow  of  the  house  below. 

* '  Gimme  the  child, ' '  he  called,  next  moment. 

Puig  tossed  out  his  white  parcel,  and  followed  it. 

"Lord!"  he  cried,  coughing.  "My  spine's  drove 
amongst  my  teeth." 


EXEUNT  OMNES  125 

He  and  the  Jackdaw  stumbled  upright,  unharmed, 
in  a  patch  of  soft,  wide-growing  savin. 

** Good-bye,  old  man.''  They  hailed  the  window 
above  them,  guardedly.  ''Thanks  for  all.  Where 
shall  we  meet  again  ? '  * 

The  householder  looked  down  on  them, — a  blurred 
face  in  a  dark  square. 

"Get  out!*'  said  Barjavel.  ''Don't  talk  so  loud, 
and  stand  clear  o '  the  mat.    Think  I  wasn  't  coming  ? ' ' 

They  leaped  from  their  savin  bed  just  in  time,  as 
the  black  shape  came  hurtling  down. 

'^Achcha!**  grunted  Barjavel,  flat  amid  evergreen 
needles.  ' '  Missed  it  for  the  world ! ' ' — He  bounded  off 
the  bush,  caught  his  footing,  and  pointed  down  a 
moonlit  mountain  flank  into  Italy.  "Come  along. 
I'm  with  you,  old  as  I  am.  This  is  better  than  living 
in  a  house!" 

They  ran.  Behind  them,  above  Goiffon's  garden,  a 
row  of  lights  in  an  upper  storey  told  the  world  that  a 
quiet  household  was  going  tamely,  domestically  to  bed. 


CHAPTEE  XI 


ROIA  STREAM 


While  they  ran,  the  three  friends  chnckled  and 
whispered  and  joyfully  swore.  The  pleasure  of  being 
together  again,  outdoors,  foot-loose  under  the  moon, 
gave  to  their  flight  a  relish  further  enhanced  by  the 
likelihood  that  danger  was  following  them.  Barjavel 
cut  capers,  pranced,  and  galloped  like  a  Percheron 
stallion  between  two  ponies.  The  bedroom  windows, 
false  lights  that  dwindled  and  grew  higher  and  higher 
aloft,  soon  vanished  behind  the  crest  of  the  hill. 

Presently  the  Jackdaw  halted. 

* '  I  '11  join  you  in  the  road, ' '  he  said.  * '  Go  on,  while 
I  see  if  anyone's  following.'' 

He  dropped  as  if  dead,  prone  in  the  dust  and 
pebbles. 

''Keep  your  gait  up!"  he  ordered.  ''They  11  show 
here  against  the  sky." 

Barjavel,  and  Puig  embracing  the  white  bundle, 
left  him  to  lie  there  on  a  bare  hillside,  and  went 
scrambling  down  the  nearest  dry  gully  among  trees. 

126 


ROIA  STREAM  127 

Loose  rocks  rattled  after  them,  overtook,  gambolled 
by  them,  and  at  last  poured  a  noisy  cascade  on  which 
they  rolled  down  through  bushes  into  a  bright  road, 
the  highway  to  Ventimiglia.  Here  they  stood  and 
caught  breath.  The  night  seemed  a  miracle  of  pale 
blue  space,  every  mountain  a  vaporous  billow,  every 
tree-top  a  clump  of  dark  mystery,  all  the  steep  coun- 
tryside dreaming,  flecked  with  snowy  villas,  above 
that  veiled  expanse  where  a  twinkle  of  moonshine  be- 
trayed the  Mediterranean.  Not  a  breath  of  wind 
moved  the  stillness  anywhere.  Then  suddenly  came 
plunging  footsteps  down  the  gully,  another  burst  of 
pebbles,  and  into  the  road  shot  a  little  figure  which 
was  Jackdabos. 

He  sprang  nimbly  to  his  feet,  sneezed,  and  re- 
ported. 

**A11  right  so  far.  Never  a  soul  stirring.  They're 
on  the  French  side  of  your  house,  Barjy,  waiting 
while  we  go  to  bed.  WeVe  got  a  clear  field  until 
morning." 

**Avanti!"  commanded  Barjavel.  "We  have  longer 
than  that.  If  any  policemen  come  inquiring  to-mor- 
row, Rene  will  tell  them  we  all  went  to  bed  roaring 
ripe,  as  jolly  as  bricklayers,  and  can't  have  break- 
fast before  noon.    Rene  is  a  faithful  steward." 

*'0  Serpent!"  cried  Jackdabos,  delighted.  ''O 
Father  of  Lies!    We're  safe  now  till  afternoon." 

.None  the  less  they  began  marching  at  full  speed 


128  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

along  the  road,  with  now.  and  then  a  spurt  of  running. 
Thus  they  devoured  the  way  into  Italy,  talking  sel- 
dom and  saving  their  wind,  until  the  railway  lamps 
of  modern  Ventimiglia  shone  before  them,  and  a 
chureh-bell  in  old  Ventimiglia  rang  midnight  over- 
head from  a  hill  of  darkened  houses.  Then  they 
turned  their  backs  on  moon  and  sea,  to  follow  the 
north  road  that  wriggles  up  a  narrowing  valley  into 
the  Alps.  Beside  them  rushed  the  Eoia,  shining  and 
gurgling  among  its  boulders.  Straight  ahead  the 
mountains  floated,  ghostly  gray  peaks  thinner  than 
smoke,  but  bound  together  with  deep,  crinkled 
shadow-gorges  that  gave  a  hint  of  solid  form. 

**How  loud  the  river  sounds!'*  exclaimed  Barjavel, 
after  some  two  hours  of  hurried  climbing.  '^It's 
noisier  than  I  ever  heard  it  before." 

They  were  now  past  Firola,  and  traversing  the 
blackest  of  the  high  gorges,  where  wooded  crags  cut 
off  the  moonlight.  Sometimes  a  curving  grayness 
underfoot  told  them  where  the  roadway  dodged  under 
the  roots  of  the  mountains ;  sometimes  a  blind  tunnel 
set  them  groping,  and  echoed  each  slow  footfall  se- 
pulchrally;  but  for  the  most  part,  running  water 
guided  them, — ^the  hiss  and  rush  of  Roia  torrent  be- 
side them  charging  down  the  twisted  glens. 

**But  that,''  cried  Jackdabos,  pausing  and  giving 
ear,  *' that's  not  all  water.    I  heard  voices." 

t^^ter,  he  stopped  again.. 


ROIA  STREAM  129 

**Many  voices.  A  great  many.  At  this  time  of 
night?'' 

And  presently  he  added,  in  dismay: 

*'What  the  devil?  Just  when  we  wanted  to  be 
alone.  Horses  and  men  by  the  dozen.  Is  it  an  army 
coming?*' 

The  next  turn  of  the  road  answered  his  question, 
for  it  bent  sharply  round  a  crag,  and  opened  a  scene 
which  brought  them  up  all  standing.  From  lonely 
darkness  they  were  plunged  without  transition  into 
flaring  light  and  busy  multitude.  Lanterns,  torches, 
and  scattered  bonfires  glowed  from  end  to  end  of  a 
deep  gorge,  reddened  a  long  forest  front  of  pine 
branches  overhanging  the  hillside  on  the  right,  and 
splashed  with  running  reflections,  below  on  the  left, 
the  gray-green  surface  of  the  Roia.  Men  swarmed 
everywhere,  dumpy  silhouettes,  talking,  laughing,  call- 
ing one  another  with  gestures,  hopping  over  great 
mounds  of  earth  in  the  road,,  scrambling  out  from  the 
pine  bristles,  as  if  the  hills  had  opened  and  poured 
forth  a  horde  of  goblins.  They  all  hurried  toward 
the  same  point — a  group  which,  midway  among  the 
lanterns  and  fires,  was  rapidly  growing  to  be  a  crowd. 

**This  won't  do,"  growled  Puig,  hugging  his  news- 
paper parcel.    *^  We  must  cut  out  round  this  mess. " 

Barjavel,  staring  at  the  lights,  appeared  doubtful. 

* '  Better  go  roundabout, ' '  he  agreed ;  then  suddenly : 
*  *  Qh^  no^   I  rememt)er ! "  he  cried.    * '  They  're  building 


130  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

a  railway  up  here.  It's  all  right.  Move  ahead.  Only 
workmen.  This  kind  of  crew  is  better  than  a  wilder- 
ness, to  hide  in. ' ' 

**Yes.      But ''    said    the    Jackdaw,    eagerly, 

'* there's  going  to  be  a  row.  Hear  'em?  A  regular 
Sabbath  of  cats!'' 

And  he  dashed  forward  gaily  to  join  the  tumult  and 
see  the  fun.  His  friends,  cursing  this  fickle  ardor  of 
his,  followed  as  best  they  could  follow,  through 
heaped  and  cross-piled  confusion — hillocks  of  sand, 
logs,  chains,  tilted  dump-carts,  derrick-ropes,  quadri- 
lateral beds  of  broken  stone,  plank  bridges,  and  tem- 
porary roads,  all  mud,  where  from  among  the  pine 
boughs  gigantic  horses,  tethered  and  blanketed,  raised 
here  and  there  a  sleepy  nose  and  whinnied  or  stamped 
the  ground. 

Jackdabos  was  soon  one  of  the  workmen,  elbowing 
his  way — ^more  subtly  than  his  fellows — ^to  the 
core  of  the  crowd.  He  had  spoken  truly.  A  Sabbath 
of  cats  was  well  begun.  Loud,  cheerful,  excited,  scores 
of  Italian  voices  drowned  the  lesser  turbulence  of  the 
Koia,  and  made  the  green  crags  ring  with  echoes. 

The  crowd  pushed  and  swayed,  but  kept  its  centre 
on  the  road,  just  before  two  wine-shops — cabins  craz- 
ily  built  of  raw  brown  boards — ^that  stared  down  with 
doors  and  windows  alight,  from  the  forest  bank. 
Each  cabin  bore  a  wilting  bush  above  a  sign-board 
^crawled  with  chalk.    The  * '  Trattoria  dei  Ferrovieri ' ' 


EOIA  STREAM  131 

still  contained  men  drinking  round  a  lantern.  Its 
neighbor,  the  ** Hostelry  of  the  Poor  Devil/'  was  a 
tiny  hut  which  seemed  deserted,  though  a  pair  of 
candles  flickered  within.  So  much  the  Jackdaw  spied 
as  he  wriggled  among  the  thickest  of  the  press. 

Next  moment,  however,  he  had  no  eyes  for  any 
such  triviality.  Among  jostling  bodies  that  reeked 
with  garlic,  he  saw  a  long  white  pair  of  hairy  ears 
flipping  back  and  forth.  They  were  the  ears  of  a 
little  white  ass.  The  creature  tossed  her  head  up- 
ward and  backward  rebelliously,  and  made  a  scarlet 
bridle  flash  in  the  lantern-light. 

**I'm  dreaming,'*  said  Jackdaw,  as  he  squeezed  be- 
tween two  men  and  reached  the  donkey's  nose. 

There  stood  the  girl — the  girl  of  Aigues-Mortes  ram- 
part. Flushed  and  tearful,  her  bare  head  shining 
above  the  swart  goblins  who  hemmed  her  in,  she 
clung  with  one  hand  to  the  bridle,  while  with  the 
other,  holding  the  same  rattan  on  which  Jackdabos 
had  performed  his  magic,  she  tried  to  wave  back  the 
worst  of  the  crowd.  She  was  talking,  pleading,  im- 
ploring breathlessly  in  French.  A  decent-looking 
foreman,  who  seemed  more  or  less  to  understand  her, 
did  his  utmost  to  clear  the  ring  about  them,  but 
vainly. 

On  the  donkey's  back  drooped  a  figure  of  anguish — 
the  girl's  brother,  no  longer  jaunty,  but  pale  as  a 


132  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

dead  man.  His  eyes  were  shut.  He  sat  biting  his 
lips  and  groaning. 

Just  then  the  girl  saw  Jackdabos. 

''Oh!''  Her  face  lighted,  her  blue  eyes  flashed  as 
though  encountering  an  old  friend.  '*You,  monsieur! 
Thank  goodness,  you  will  help !'' 

''What's  the  matter?"  asked  the  Jackdaw,  in  Eng- 
lish. 

"There  was  no  lantern,"  she  cried.  "My  brother 
has  broken  his  leg.  There  was  no  lantern  to  warn 
us,  and  a  pile  of  logs  or  ties,  with  a  deep  hole  beyond 
them.  Is  there  a  doctor  in  this  camp?  Oh,  these 
people!  Get  back!  Please,  please  keep  them  off 
him.  The  donkey  won't  stand  it,  and  every  move- 
ment ..." 

The  Jackdaw  instantly  wheeled  about,  and  began 
patting  the  nearest  heads  and  shoulders. 

"Come,  boys,"  he  said,  with  lively  good-humor. 
"Fall  back  a  step  or  two.  Of  your  grace,  make  room. 
A  gentleman  has  broken  his  leg.  Pass  the  word  back. 
Show  a  little  mercy,  and  give  the  gentleman  room  to 
suffer  in.  What  the  devil,  it  is  not  the  Day  of  Judg- 
ment!" 

With  that,  he  put  a  jest  of  highly  personal,  descrip- 
tive flavor,  on  an  odd-faced  man  who  seemed  the  most 
forward  and  boisterous  in  the  front  rank.  It  was  a 
merry  word,  low  in  its  origin,  but  apt.  The  victim's 
friends  laughed.    Jackdabos,  with  fluent  cajolery,  at 


ROIA  STREAM  133 

once  pursued  this  advantage,  and  aided  by  the  fore- 
man, shoved  and  tugged  and  persuaded  until  the 
laborers  cheerfully  enough  gave  way  and  formed  a 
circle,  crying  shame  on  those  who  still  pushed  from 
behind. 

Thus  in  a  moment  the  Jackdaw,  who  would  will- 
ingly have  escaped  notice,  found  himself  a  chief  per- 
sonage, the  interpreter  and  central  hero  of  the  piece. 
Lanterns  on  the  ground  served  as  footlights,  beyond 
which  the  audience  jammed  and  struggled, — a  cloud 
of  dark  faces,  of  gleaming  teeth  and  eyeballs,  of  stable 
odors  mingled  with  garlic. 

**I  saw  lights,*'  continued  the  girl,  beginning  to  sob 
with  relief.  **I  thought  there  must  be  a  doctor  here. 
Oh,  there  must  be!*' 

Jackdabos  interpreted. 

**No,'*  replied  the  foreman,  shaking  his  crop-head. 
* '  I  'm  sorry  for  the  lady.    We  have  no  doctor. ' ' 

The  drooping  rider  on  the  ass  groaned,  and  swayed 
as  though  to  fall. 

''Never  mind,  Ruth,"  he  mumbled,  between 
clenched  teeth. 

His  sister  gave  him  a  quick  upward  glance  full  of 
anxiety  and  pity;  then  her  eyes  met  the  bold,  black, 
friendly  eyes  of  the  Jackdaw.  Neither  girl  nor  raga?- 
muffin  spoke  a  word,  but  intelligence  crossed  intelli- 
gence perfectly. 

''You  will  help  meV 


134  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

''To  the  world's  end.'' 

He  was  about  to  act  on  this  dumb  promise,  when 
from  the  lighted  door  of  the  ' '  Ferrovieri "  drinking- 
den,  and  down  the  bank,  came  staggering  a  group  of 
bleary,  tousle-headed  rascals.  They  broke  through 
into  the  charmed  circle,  and  stared  owlishly.  One 
drunkard  was  nursing  half  a  loaf  of  bread,  on  which 
he  mechanically  smeared  a  gobbet  of  cheese  with  a 
table-knife. 

''What's  here?"  cried  these  roisterers,  thickly;  and 
they  whooped,  and  began  to  talk  nonsense. 

Among  them  was  a  young  scoundrel  with  a  cun- 
ning, depraved  face  who  seemed  less  drunk  than  his 
companions.  He  brushed  the  hair  out  of  his  eyes, 
bent  forward,  hands  on  knees,  and  leered  up  at  the 
girl. 

"Ah,  bellissima!"  he  crooned,  amorously.  "Art 
thou  come  at  last, — and  with  all  that  glorious  hair?" 

He  sidled  closer,  thrust  his  ugly  nose  within  an  inch 
of  hers,  and  said  something  which  luckily  she  did  not 
understand. 

Jackdabos  understood  it.  So  did  the  workmen, 
many  of  whom  laughed.  But  Jackdabos  laughed  not 
at  all.  He  caught  the  creature  and  threw  him  against 
the  wall  of  witnesses. 

"Never  dare  say  that!"  he  ordered,  in  a  whisper 
that  cut  through  the  crowd  and  made  all  still.  He 
himself  saw  dimly  for  a  moment,  as  if  the  ring  of 


ROIA  STREAM  135 

lanterns  had  turned  red.  Dimly  his  enemy's  face 
gathered  out  of  the  darkness,  and  grew  clear.  It  was 
a  pale,  wasted,  grinning  face,  with  loathsome  dank 
hair  flung  over  its  forehead.  The  fellow  was  not 
drunk  at  all,  but  cold  with  fury. 

** Never  say  it?'*  he  rose  to  a  crouching  posture, 
and  drew  from  his  bootleg  a  long  blade. 

Then,  deliberately,  he  said  it  again,  and  worse. 

The  Jackdaw,  swifter  than  though  all  had  been  pre- 
arranged, caught  the  table-knife  from  him  who  ate 
bread  and  cheese.  He  took  it  lightly  in  passing.  What 
followed  was  a  rush  and  a  shock,  as  of  a  tiger  charg- 
ing a  bewildered  calf.  Somebody  fell,  a  crumpled 
bag  of  clothes,  rolling  among  the  workmen's  boots. 
Jackdabos  pitched  away  his  knife.    It  was  not  clean. 

*'You  heard  him,"  he  declared,  haughtily. 

The  Roia  made  its  voice  prevail  in  the  long  hush. 

Jackdabos  turned.  He  saw  the  white  ass  blinking,* 
her  rider  peering  dully  as  through  a  mist  of  pain  at 
the  fallen  body;  and  beside  these,  the  girl  wringing 
her  hands.  At  sight  of  her,  he  woke  to  the  meaning, 
the  continuity,  the  fatality  of  things. 

*'What  have  I  done?"  he  cried  sharply,  and  ran 
toward  her  like  a  child  or  a  suppliant.  *  *  You  counted 
on  me  for  help.    O  fool !    Miserable  fool ! ' ' 

She  stared  at  him  with  a  horror  which  he  could  not 
fathom. 


136  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

''There'll  be  trouble.  I  made  it  for  you,  yes,  but 
1 11  get  you  out  of  it.    Come. ' ' 

He  reached  forth  his  right  hand  to  beckon  her 
away,  clear  of  this  danger  which  already  growled  on 
every  side.  **Come!"  he  besought  her.  ''Trust  me. 
Trust  a  poor  fool.'*  She  recoiled  from  his  hand. 
Blood  covered  the  knuckles,  where  that  pale  beast  had 
scratched  him,  after  all.  It  was  his  own  blood,  and 
shed  on  her  account.    She  could  not  be  so  unjust  .  .  . 

"Oh,  well,''  he  said  after  waiting,  and  turned  to 
face  the  storm. 

It  burst  with  shouts  and  confusion  and  the  bran- 
dishing of  many  Italian  fists.  A  man  dashed  head- 
long and  grappled  for  his  throat.  Jackdabos  tore  the 
man  loose,  then  held  him  at  arm's  length. 

' '  Be  quiet, ' '  commanded  Jackdabos.  ' '  I  don 't  want 
to  hurt  you." 

But  his  captive,  one  of  the  drunken  party,  began 
writhing  and  screeching  for  help. 

"What!  Are  strangers  to  come  here  and  kill  us? 
At  them!    Save  me,  boys!" 

A  dozen  men  sprang  forward.  The  Jackdaw  freed 
his  fists  and  made  play  while  he  might.  The  ring 
closed,  the  blows  were  going  blindly. 

"It  can't  last  long,"  thought  the  Jackdaw,  dodg- 
ing, smiting,  and  being  smitten.  This  was  the  worst 
fight  he  had  ever  known,  for  there  was  no  pleasure  in 
it:    the  presence  of  the  girl,  directly  behind  him, 


ROIA  STREAM  137 

clogged  his  soul  with  torment,  a  nightmare  of  re- 
proach.   **It  can't  last  long." 

Someone  whom  he  had  knocked  over  crept  in  and 
tackled  him  round  the  knees.  He  went  down  gamely, 
fighting,  but  none  the  less  down. 

A  roar  of  triumph  passed  over  his  body. 


CHAPTEB  XII 

GUESTS  OF  THE  POOR  DEVIL 

The  roar  of  triumph  sounded  strangely,  not  because 
it  rang  in  the  ears  of  defeat,  but  because  it  came 
from  the  wrong  direction.  With  a  rush  and  a 
trampling,  it  swept  over  Jackdabos  from  behind,  met 
his  adversaries  full  front,  and  scattered  them  like 
hornets  in  a  gale. 

Panting,  aching,  stunned  with  blows,  he  sat  up. 

The  roar  proceeded  from  Barjavel,  who  was 
charging  the  enemy  alone,  sweeping  his  mighty  arms 
like  a  swimmer.  Every  sweep  overturned  three  or 
four  workmen. 

"Back,  to  the  wine-shop!'*  cried  the  giant  over  his 
shoulder.  *'Into  the  wine-shop,  Jacko,  the  other  one, 
the  little  one.    Into  the  Poor  Devil !'' 

Shouting,  he  stooped,  caught  a  burly  rioter  by  the 
ankles,  whirled  him  aloft  like  an  Indian  club,  then 
swung  him  horizontally  through  the  air  A  windrow 
of  the  mob  fell  before  this  human  cudgel. 

Jackdabos  cast  a  glance  behind. 
138 


GUESTS  OF  THE  POOR  DEVIL  139 

At  the  wine-shop  door  above  stood  Puig,  hesitating, 
clinging  still  to  his  white  bundle.  The  hesitation  was 
brief.  Next  moment  the  smith  dropped  his  treasure 
on  the  threshold,  leaped  up,  caught  the  signboard  of 
the  Poor  Devil,  hoisted  himself  like  an  acrobat, 
wrenched  off  the  faded  wine-bush,  and  fell  with  it  to 
the  ground. 

'*Hoy!''  yelled  Puig  in  a  Berserker  voice. 

He  ran  to  the  nearest  bonfire,  into  which  he  poked 
the  bush.  Eesinous  evergreen,  dried  to  the  color  of 
iron-rust,  it  caught  at  the  first  touch  and  flamed. 

*  *  Hoy ! '  *  hooted  the  smith.  Hurtling  down  the  bank 
into  the  fray,  he  laid  about  him  with  his  burning  bush. 
* '  Get  the  lady  out,  Jacko !  Indoors !  The  way 's  clear. 
Indoors!" 

The  fallen  Jackdaw  gaped,  rubbed  his  head,  and 
sprang  up.    Once  afoot,  he  gathered  his  wits. 

The  white  ass,  frightened  by  Puig's  fire,  was  back- 
ing violently,  though  the  girl  dragged  at  the  halter. 
Jackdabos  went  to  the  ass  and  laid  a  gentle  hand  on 
her  nose-bone. 

'*We  are  going  into  the  Poor  Devil  now,"  he  said. 
*'Come,  little  friend  of  our  Saviour." 

All  animals  were  kind  to  him.  The  ass  forgot  to 
struggle,  moved  willingly  where  he  led.  Upright  on 
her  sat  Brother  Ralph,  but  like  a  man  in  a  swoon. 
The  girl,  releasing  the  halter,  followed.  As  they 
climbed  the  bank,  Jackdabos  looked  down  on  the  fight, 


140  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

and  saw  the  road  swept  clean  of  people,  the  ring  of 
lanterns  deserted,  the  mob  retreating,  dividing,  fall- 
ing before  his  friends.  Puig's  bonfire  bough  whirled 
among  scared  faces,  threshed  them  and  showered  them 
with  sparks,  while  the  roaring  giant  caught  up  men 
by  handfuls,  cracked  their  heads  together,  and  tossed 
them  away  like  rubbish,  laughing  and  talking  while 
he  fought. 

'^This,''  resounded  the  voice  of  Barjavel,  "is  bet- 
ter than  living  in  a  house ! ' ' 

The  Hostelry  of  the  Poor  Devil  contained  two  flick- 
ering candles,  as  before,  but  apparently  nothing  else. 
Through  its  open  door  Jackdabos  led  the  ass,  who 
stepped  daintily  over  the  sill,  over  Puig^s  newspaper 
parcel,  into  the  middle  of  the  floor.  Their  entrance 
drove  a  man  backward,  in  surprise,  from  some  peep- 
hole near  the  door  where  evidently  he  had  been  watch- 
ing the  combat.  He  was  a  wiry,  sun-dried  little  old 
man,  keen  of  glance,  bent,  furtive,  rapid  in  move- 
ment, with  scrubby  gray  hair  bristling  like  a  squir- 
rel's  tail. 

'*I  don't  keep  a  stable,''  he  snapped,  while  his  gold 
ear-rings  trembled  fretfully.    *'I  keep  a  wine-shop." 

The  Jackdraw  disregarded  him. 

''Lean  over.  Let  yourself  slide.  Gently,  sir,"  said 
Jackdabos  to  the  sufferer.  **Now  into  my  arms. 
There.    So." 

He  lifted  Brother  Ralph  down  from  the  ass,  laid 


GUESTS  OF  THE  POOR  DEVIL         141 

him  on  the  floor,  and  placed  under  his  head  Puig's 
bundle  for  a  pillow.  The  girl,  kneeling,  tried  to  give 
aid  and  comfort. 

** They '11  burn  the  house  down  over  our  heads," 
complained  the  landlord. 

A  voice  from  the  doorway  answered. 

**No,  they  won't.''  It  was  Barjavel,  glowing  with 
exercise.  He  remained  outdoors,  his  attention  divided 
between  room  and  road.  **If  they  do, — here.  I'll 
buy  the  shop." 

Barjavel  reached  in  a  bottomless  gulf  of  a  pocket 
and  dredged  up  a  fistful  of  gold  pieces. 

'*That  enough,  Pierre?"  He  tossed  them  chinking 
on  a  barrel-head  where  the  candles  burned.  **The 
Hostelry  of  the  Poor  Devil  is  my  house  now,  Bar- 
javel's  Entire." 

The  landlord  stared,  made  a  queer  sort  of  ducking 
salaam,  then  pounced  on  the  coins. 

*'Any  more  asses  outside?"  he  chuckled.  **If  so, 
bring  'em  in,  as  many  as  you  like." 

Jackdabos  had  his  first  good  look  at  the  speaker. 

**What,  Pierre,  is  it  you?"  he  cried  joyfully. 
"Peter  the  Ferret,  always  near  the  border!  Incor- 
rigible smuggler,  show  us  your  latest  run-way.  We 
must  be  off,  old  Furet  du  Bois  Joli." 

The  landlord  of  the  Poor  Devil  stared  again,  then 
burst  out  laughing.     His  dryness,  his  furtive  air, 


142  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

seemed  to  drop  from  him  like  a  mask,  leaving  the  man 
all  warmth  and  genuine  aifection. 

''Jacko!''  he  exclaimed.  ^^Why,  Jacko,  my  dear 
son,  always  in  trouble ! ' ' 

The  girl,  kneeling  by  her  brother,  gazed  from  one 
to  another  of  these  noisy  outlaws  who  had  forgotten 
her. 

**You  missed  your  man.  Jack,''  said  Barjavel,  grin- 
ning. ''The  dirty  brute's  alive  and  well,  though  you 
knocked  his  wind  out  and  scared  him  green.  He's 
none  the  worse.     Couldn't  be  that." 

''Thank  God!"  cried  the  girl. 

Barjavel  smiled  at  her,  benignly. 

"You  may  trust  yourself,"  he  declared,  "to  my 
young  friend,  Monsieur  Jackdabos.  All's  well.  I 
must  shut  the  door  now.     Good-bye." 

As  he  spoke,  Puig  dodged  under  his  arm  and  en- 
tered— a  grimy  figure  powdered  with  ashes.  The  door 
closed  after  him.  The  shutters  were  already  barred 
across  the  one  pair  of  windows.  Imprisoned,  the  little 
company  in  the  wine-shop  heard  murmuring  with- 
out, and  a  loud  scuffle  of  many  feet  approaching.  A 
stone  hit  the  boarded  front  and  made  the  place  boom 
like  a  drum.  Barjavel's  voice  was  heard,  quietly  and 
calmly  expostulating.    There  followed  a  lull. 

"Show  us  your  back  door.  Ferret,"  said  Jackda- 
bos. "Don't  tell  us  you  haven't  any.  We  know  you 
better." 


GUESTS  OF  THE  POOR  DEVIL  143 

The  little  landlord  winked  solemnly. 

"I  wouldn't  do  this  for  everybody/'  he  replied. 
*'But  for  you,  son,  and  your  party,  here  is  one  gate 
into  France.'' 

The  back  wall  of  the  wine-shop  appeared  a  solid 
rank  of  shelves  which  contained  bottles,  wicker  flasks, 
liqueur  jugs,  a  few  loaves  of  bread,  and  smoked  meats 
hanging  in  mysterious  brown  clusters.  Peter,  the 
Ferret  of  the  Pretty  Wood,  went  straight  to  the 
middle  compartment,  removed  a  jug,  and  fingered 
something  which  clinked  in  the  darkness.  Toward 
him,  on  silent  hinges,  there  swung  a  four-foot  width 
of  shelves,  to  reveal  an  irregular  opening  bordered 
with  rock.  This  Hostelry  of  the  Poor  Devil  stood 
with  its  back  against  a  crag ;  but  in  that  crag  yawned 
a  black  fissure,  tall  and  narrow. 

** Behold  my  catacombs,"  announced  the  landlord. 
**  Climb  straight  up.  Jack  boy,  then  through  the  trees, 
then  to  your  left.  You'll  know  the  rest  of  the  way 
when  you  see  it.    The  old  granite  path." 

His  guests  hung  back,  eyeing  one  another  in  per- 
plexity. Here  at  their  feet  was  the  chief  encum- 
brance, this  young  man  who  lay  so  pale,  and  still, 
and  handsome,  as  though  asleep  or  dead. 

"Ill  carry  him^"  growled  Puig.  **He'll  have  to 
chew  his  misery  a  while  longer.  Not  the  first  man 
that  ever  suffered.  You  take  my  plate,  Jacko,  and 
lead  the  ass," 


144  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

*'You,"  said  the  girl,  looking  at  Puig  askance, 
**you  never  can  carry  my  brother.    He's  so  large." 

The  sturdy  blacksmith  scowled  up  in  her  face. 

*'Can'tr'  he  retorted.  *'Poor  little  runt,  am  I? 
You  waif 

Beaching  for  a  wicker  flask  on  a  shelf,  Puig  skil- 
fully flicked  out  the  oil  from  its  neck,  and  took  a  long 
swig  of  wine.  Then  he  smacked  his  lips,  and  bending 
down,  raised  the  girl's  brother  lightly  in  his  arms. 

"I  can  lug  this,''  he  boasted,  ''from  now  till 
Christmas." 

Jackdabos  meanwhile  gathered  up  the  Trojan  plate 
— ^which  seemed  a  worthless  burden  at  that  moment — 
and  took  the  ass  by  her  mane.  Peter  the  Ferret 
lighted  them  with  a  candle  to  the  mouth  of  the  fissure, 
where,  smiling  and  bowing,  he  wished  the  young  lady 
good  night,  a  pleasant  journey,  and  a  safe  recovery 
to  the  poor  gentleman.  The  girl  faltered  somewhat, 
as  well  she  might  do,  when  she  saw  before  them  a 
crooked  slit  of  a  cavern  floored  with  broken  rocks. 

* 'You're  not  afraid?"  urged  the  Jackdaw,  impa- 
tiently. "Our  friend  Monsieur  Barjavel,  who  is  a 
gentleman,  promised  I  should  do  my  best  for  you.  I 
sha'n't  lose  my  head  again  to-night." 

They  stepped  through  rows  of  bottles  into  the  cleft : 
Puig  and  his  armful,  the  girl  next,  Jackdabos  and  the 
white  donkey  last.  No  sooner  were  they  well  inside 
the  crag,  than  Pierre  closed  his  smuggler's  door,  and 


GUESTS  OF  THE  POOR  DEVIL         145 

left  them  blinded.  They  heard — ^the  sound  came 
floating  over  the  Poor  Devirs  roof, — a  loud,  musical 
voice  lifted  in  oratory.  Barjavel,  abandoned,  was 
not  only  guarding  the  front  door  but  winning  his 
audience.    He  had  the  mob  laughing. 

'*No  one  is  much  hurt?''  he  inquired,  persuasively. 
''Those  who  wanted  a  fight  have  had  one,  the  rest  of 
us  were  entertained.  It^s  either  Saturday  night  or 
Sunday  morning.  We  don't  have  to  work  to-mor- 
row. As  owner  of  the  Poor  Devil,  I  invite  you  all  to 
come  have  a  drink.  Until  the  house  goes  dry  as  a 
bone  .  .  .*' 

They  lost  his  conclusion  in  a  rumble  of  sound; 
rock  walls-  enfolded  them  with  dungeon  thickness  and 
darkness;  the  donkey's  hoofs  clattered  on  pebbles, 
now  and  then  flashing  a  long,  soft  spark,  until  at  last, 
after  many  winding  ascents  among  jagged  granite  and 
tangled  roots,  light  began  dawning  overhead.  They 
mounted  as  through  a  succession  of  ruined  chimneys. 
A  steep  and  dusty  climb  brought  them  from  rocks  to 
matted  pine-boughs;  another,  from  boughs  to  pale 
moonlight  on  a  mountain  ridge.  They  had  forgotten 
the  moon.  Here  in  the  cold  upper  air,  she  covered 
a  bosom  of  the  hills  with  mystical  pallor. 

Puig  laid  the  injured  man  on  the  grass,  and  busied 
himself  there. 

** Broken,"  said  he.  "Broken  right  enough,  but 
simple.    Better  not  delay.*' 


146  THE  KEY  OP  THE  FIELDS 

*'We  must  go  get  splints,"  agreed  the  Jackdaw. 

'*No,  I'U  find  'em,"  said  Puig.  ^'You  stay  with 
the  lady." 

He  disappeared  among  the  pine-needles  whence  they 
had  climbed. 

''Poor  old  Ealph,  are  you  suffering?"  asked  the 
girl. 

Her  brother  lay  and  stared  at  the  setting  moon. 

*'I'm  all  right,"  he  answered,  in  a  tone  that  belied 
his  words.  "Quite  comfortable,  thanks.  It's  my  own 
fool  fault.  Sorry  we  didn't  stop  where  you  wanted, 
Ruth." 

She  sat  holding  his  hand  for  a  while. 

**I  ought  not  have  let  you  go  on,"  she  said.  "The 
night  seemed  so  beautiful.  We  were  both  moon- 
struck." 

He  did  not  reply,  but  shivered.  Jackdabos,  who  had 
remained  aloof,  standing  by  the  snowy  flank  of  the 
ass,  now  came  forward,  took  off  his  jacket,  and  spread 
it  over  the  man's  body.  He  then  returned  to  his 
place.    The  girl  presently  rose  and  joined  him  there. 

*  *  You  must  be  cold,  sir. ' ' 

''Not  at  all,"  he  answered,  though  drenched  in 
sweat,  and  ready  to  freeze.  "Thank  you,  mademoi- 
selle." 

She  stood  regarding  him  doubtfully.  He  made  no 
advances. 

' '  Can 't  you  bring  us  to  a  doctor  ?  " 


GUESTS  OF  THE  tOOR  DEVIL         147 

He  ojffered  a  gesture  of  excuse. 

**Have  patience.  We  shall  go  on  immediately, 
when  we  have  set  your  brother's  leg.'* 

''Can  you  do  that?" 

"That?"  He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  '*We  can 
try.  Broken  bones,  mademoiselle,  are  nothing  novel 
tons." 

She  was  on  the  point  of  giving  him  up,  for  he  ap- 
peared distant,  grave,  wrapt  from  her  understanding 
by  ages  of  hard,  patient  experience.  A  detail,  slight 
but  odd,  increased  this  effect.  The  late  scuffle  with 
the  workmen  had  knocked  his  old  cloth  headgear  into 
a  curious  overhanging  fold,  so  like  the  Phrygian  cap 
that  in  the  moonlight  he  seemed  the  incarnation  of 
some  youthful  god.  What  god,  she  could  not  remem- 
ber. 

Piqued,  and  also  very  anxious  to  maintain  at  least 
a  form  of  friendliness  with  her  guide,  she  made  an- 
other attempt. 

"Aren't  you  glad  the  man  is  alive?" 

"What  man?"  he  inquired. 

"The  man  you  stabbed." 

"I  didn't  stab  anyone."  Jackdabos  leaned  on  the 
donkey's  shoulder,  and  warmed  his  hands  in  his 
pockets.  "I  was  awkward.  I  failed.  That's  why 
he's  alive." 

"And  you  don't  care!"  she  exclaimed,  growing  in- 
dignant.   "You  tried  to  kill,  and  you're  not  sorry." 


14$  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

The  leaning  stoic  surprised  her  with  an  outburst  of 
passion. 

**I  tried  to  let  him  have  it  right  through  his  rasp- 
berry!" he  cried,  exulting.  **Make  the  worst  of 
that,  mademoiselle,  if  you  like.  It  doesn't  matter. 
The  wish  to  kill  was  there,  though  you  hate  me  for  it, 
and  wouldn't  touch  my  hand.  Sorry?  Yes,  I'm 
sorry  because — ^well,  what  you  call  a  gentleman  would 
have  kept  his  head,  thought  of  you  first,  and  got  you 
out  of  this  botch  better  than  what  I'm  doing." 

He  broke  off  abruptly,  and  stared  at  the  grass, 
frosted  with  moonlight. 

"My  blood's  not  that  kind,"  he  added. 

She  waited  for  his  next  word.  It  did  not  come. 
Jackdabos  patted  the  donkey's  neck,  then  remained 
motionless, — a  queer  little  statue  of  pride  and  peni- 
tence, crowned  with  his  Phrygian  cap. 

**The  man  you  tried  to  kill,"  she  resumed,  *'what 
did  he  say?" 

''Nothing." 

''I  insist  on  your  telling  me." 

''Girl,"  replied  the  Jackdaw  sternly,  "you  are  very 
young.  You  don't  understand  men.  Be  content  with 
that." 

The  trees  below  them  rustled.  Puig  came  toiling 
out  of  the  shadows,  up  the  barren  curve  of  the  ridge. 
On  his  shoulder  he  carried  a  bundle  of  scantlings  that 
rattled,  and  in  his  hand  a  coil  of  light  rope. 


GUESTS  OF  THE  POOR  DEVIL         149 

*'I  stole  the  best  I  could  find/'  he  reported. 

The  Jackdaw  sprang  forward. 

**Well  set  your  brother's  leg/'  said  he,  with  alac- 
rity.   **Now,  my  poor  friend,  have  courage.'* 

By  moonlight,  he  and  Puig  squatted  to  perform 
the  necessary  work.  It  was  not  easy.  But  the  girl, 
watching  them  and  vainly  trying  to  help,  found  her- 
self lost  in  wonder  at  their  quickness,  their  powerful, 
unerring  movements,  their  knowledge  of  what  to  do. 
Her  brother  made  never  a  sound  until  the  process 
ended,  and  he  lay  with  one  scantling  from  armpit  to 
ankle,  another  from  ankle  to  crotch,  both  bound  cun- 
ningly with  rope  that  nowhere  pinched  or  loosened. 

** Thanks,  you  chaps,"  he  moaned.  **You  did  that 
— aah! — like  a  charm." 

*'Did  well  yourself.  Good  pluck,"  said  Puig.  "I 
like  him  better  than  I  thought." 

Jackdabos  helped  the  girl  to  rise.  This  time  their 
hands  met. 

**Now  for  France  and  a  good  doctor,"  he  said.  **I 
know  the  short  way  over  the  hills. ' ' 

Through  the  troubles  of  that  moment,  she  felt  a 
curious  fear  and  joy,  as  if  she  had  become  owner  of 
some  beautiful  wild  thing.  The  moon  descended 
among  pines  beyond  a  slant  Alpine  spur,  and  through 
the  mountain  air  passed  the  change,  the  stir,  the 
universal  sigh  of  morning. 


CHAPTEE   XIII 

THE  SARACENS'  PATH 


Ruth  Moultrie  was  not  like  Chaucer's  heroine,  up 
with  the  sun.  Rarely  had  she  seen  the  dawn  of  day 
except  as  a  spectacle,  a  **view,''  a  custom  for  which 
travellers  made  arrangement  over-night.  She  would 
have  agreed  with  that  writer — ^had  she  known  him — 
who  declared  early  risers  are  conceited  all  morning, 
and  drowsy  all  afternoon.  Dawns  were  good,  she 
loved  to  read  of  them  in  poetry;  but  as  a  healthy, 
wealthy,  and  wise  girl  she  always  had  slept  late. 

Now  the  real  dawn  crept  round  her  unawares.  The 
moon  had  set,  withdrawn  its  last  glow-worm  light  be- 
hind the  peaks ;  a  few  stars,  lonely  white  sparks  with- 
out lustre,  were  one  by  one  being  quenched;  and 
there  succeeded,  not  twilight,  but  a  nameless  and  sor- 
rowful blue  element,  a  profound  blue  obscurity,  as 
though  all  the  color  of  the  sky  had  fallen  to  bottom, 
concentrated,  and  darkened  the  air. 

It  frightened  her,  this  unearthly  medium  through 
which  they  walked  forlorn. 

150 


THE  SARACENS^  PATH  151 

"When  shall  we  reach  the  pathT' 

She  put  the  question  to  Jackdabos,  whose  white 
shirt  guided  their  steps. 

**We*re  in  the  path/'  he  answered. 

Nothing  but  bare  ledges  appeared  underfoot,  noth- 
ing but  monstrous  gray  cliffs  and  overhanging  shad- 
ows defined  the  limits  of  her  wandering. 

**Herer'  she  exclaimed.    "Are  you  sureT' 

The  white  shirt  bobbed  along  composedly. 

"I  know  these  hills  like  my  thumb/'  said  Jackda- 
bos. "It  is  an  old  path.  Some  call  it  the  way  of  the 
Saracens.  There  are  different  names,  although  few 
of  those  who  name  it  could  tell  you  where  it  runs. 
Just  now  it  is  the  private  Corniche  of  Peter  the  Fer- 
ret. Before  we  met  you,  to-night,  I  had  thought  of 
climbing  into  this  path,  but  farther  along.'' 

She  took  his  word  for  the  unseen  track,  and  fol- 
lowed. Behind  her  the  ass  ambled  faithfully,  another 
white  blur  among  shadows,  carrying  her  brother,  who 
rode  silent  as  a  ghost,  and  obeying  the  bridle-hand 
of  a  dark  thing  known  as  Puig.  She  waited  for  them, 
and  would  have  talked,  but  her  brother  answered  in 
a  dazed  way,  while  Puig,  respectful  but  saturnine, 
was  too  busily  watching  step  by  step  the  animal's 
progress.  After  a  time  Ruth  wenjb  forward  again. 
Their  leader  moved  quietly  and  steadily  on,  as  though 
unwilling  to  be  overtaken,  or  even  to  be  thought  will- 
ing.   Ruth  hated  all  manner  of  surliness;  but  while 


152  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

she  continued  to  walk  alone,  thinking,  it  occurred  to 
her  that  perhaps  this  little  runagate,  ahead,  this  nmn- 
stabbing  conjurer  and  hill  vagabond,  was  only  being 
polite.    It  would  be  curious  to  know  .  .  . 

She  quickened  her  pace,  and  came  alongside  him. 

*'M.y  brother  still  has  your  coat,*'  she  began. 
''Don't  you  need  it?" 

*'No,  thank  you,"  replied  Jackdabos.  ''I  am  walk- 
ing, he  must  keep  still." 

He  was  not  surly,  but  quiet  and  self-contained.  His 
readiness  to  answer  and  then  to  let  conversation 
drop,  struck  her  as  a  form  of  courtesy.  She  would 
persevere. 

**This  morning  light  is  very  beautiful,"  she  ven- 
tured. ''I  never  knew  the  world  could  look  so  old 
and  full  of — strangeness." 

He  smiled  at  her,  sidelong.  His  face  lighted  wist- 
fully in  the  gloom. 

*'That  is  the  nature  of  the  world,"  said  Jackdabos. 
*'It  declares  itself  best  before  the  day."  He  walked 
along  in  silence,  then  tossing  a  glance  back  toward  the 
donkey,  added:  "Just  now  you  were  like  the  Flight 
into  Egypt.  I  would  paint  it  so,  with  this  dark  blue 
and  strangeness,  as  you  said;  and  these  violet-gray 
mountains  butting  their  heads  together  like  rams ;  and 
up  aloft,  the  little  slow  pink  fire  beginning  to  make 
the  snows  burn  at  the  tip.  Like  now.  Only  you 
would  be  riding  the  ass  and  holding  the  Child." 


THE  SARACENS*  PATH  153 

Ruth  looked  at  him  quickly,  and  away.  His  words 
took  her  by  surprise,  like  the  sudden  opening  of  a 
window  that  revealed  both  the  inward  man  and  the 
outward  prospect  of  his  world.  Aloft,  very  high 
above  this  colored  solemnity,  an  Alpine  crest  had 
caught  the  sunrise.  A  little  slow  pink  fire  kindled, 
as  he  had  told  her,  the  highest  pointed  billow  of  the 
snow. 

**I  had  not  seen  it,*'  she  confessed.  "Are  you  a 
painter?" 

The  queer  little  fellow  shook  his  head,  mournfully. 

"No,  mademoiselle.  I  am  nothing, — nothing  but  a 
bad  character.  The  tricks  of  painting,  yes,  I  know 
*em  all,  the  tricks.  But  not  to  pass  in,  deeper,  through 
the  face  of  the  canvas.  You  understand.  For  me,  the 
door  of  the  foreground  is  locked.  Beyond  it  are  those 
fields  and  landscapes.  No.  I  have  not  the  key  of 
the  fields." 

Ruth  watched  him  while  he  spoke.  No  less  than  his 
words,  his  manner  puzzled  her,  for  it  seemed  full  of 
regret,  discouragement,  and  humility.  Often  she  had 
recalled  that  sunny  afternoon  when  they  met  on 
Aigues-Mortes  rampart.  In  her  memory  this  young 
man  had  remained  as  a  distant  enigma,  a  gay  outcast 
of  Provence,  clever,  mystifying,  with  a  dash  of  the 
braggart  and  the  charlatan.  Now,  at  her  side,  he 
became  another  man. 

"When  you  turned  this,"  Ruth  raised  her  rattan, 


154  THE  KEY  OP  THE  FIELDS 

''into  the  rod  of  Moses — or  was  it  Pharaoh ^s?  Yon 
remember?" 

His  eyes  glowed  with  sombre  delight. 

' '  I  shall  never  forget. ' ' 

The  reply  startled  her.  It  was  no  compliment,  but 
a  truth  wrenched  out  of  the  man.  She  caught  up  her 
broken  sentence  hastily. 

'*You  said,  at  the  time,  that  you  could  do  any- 
thing.'^ 

The  Jackdaw  groaned  and  hung  his  head  as  he 
walked. 

**Once  a  fool,  always  a  fool,  mademoiselle." 

They  continued  marching  together,  but  for  a  long 
time  without  speaking.  Ruth  found  that  her  heart 
began  to  beat  an  alarm.  *'What  have  we  said?"  she 
asked  herself.  ''Nothing.  Nonsense.  But  I  thought 
he  disliked  me,  and  he  doesn't."  That  momentary 
sombre  glow  of  the  eyes,  that  promise  given  against 
his  will,  torn  from  him,  declared  a  certainty  which 
was  not  at  all  dislike.  She  should  have  been  more 
frightened;  she  should  have  been  more  angry;  but 
fear  and  anger  touched  her  only  with  passing  wing; 
for  she  knew  that  beside  this  dark-visaged,  fiery-eyed 
young  brawler  she  walked  as  safe  as  ever  she  had 
walked  with  Ralph,  her  brother.  She  rejoiced  at  the 
knowledge,  and  marvelled  at  her  own  rejoicing. 

When  Jackdabos  again  spoke,  he  confirmed  this 
wonderful  security.    He  threw  off  his  restraint  like  a 


THE  SAEACENS'  PATH  155 

bad  disguise,  and  wanning,  brightening  as  he  went, 
became  a  chatterbox. 

**A  man  lived  in  Castellar,*'  said  he,  '*a  friend  of 
Peter  the  Ferret's,  who  had  a  wife  so  sweet-tempered, 
mademoiselle,  you  could  hardly  tell  when  she  hated 
you.  I  knew  them  both.  They  owned  a  very  intel- 
ligent goat  who  slept  under  the  bread-cage.  ..." 

It  was  a  merry  tale,  half-truth,  half -fable.  He  made 
her  laugh,  beguiled  the  journey  with  laughter.  So 
this  Path  of  the  Saracens  wound  through  the  moun- 
tains like  the  way  of  an  eagle  in  the  air,  the  way  of 
a  serpent  upon  a  rock,  and  the  way  of  a  man  with  a 
maid. 

Certainly  Ruth  never  could  have  retraced  it.  Once 
they  went  plunging  down  a  narrow  glen  smothered  in 
tall  pines;  once  they  crossed  an  ancient,  broken 
bridge  under  the  arches  of  which  a  gray-green  river 
raced  and  smoked  with  morning  mist;  and  once  her 
friend  the  Jackdaw,  halting  their  little  column  in  a 
defile  among  jagged  boulders  greater  than  houses, 
commanded  silence,  because  they  were  climbing  a  for- 
bidden mountain  where  soldiers  might  catch  them  for 
spies.  Then,  after  a  long,  bewildering  ascent,  they 
labored  up  from  the  last  lingering  shadow  of  earth 
to  a  desolate  Alpine  mound,  and  stood  alone  with  the 
sunrise,  their  own  shadows  pointing  far  ahead  over 
white  grass  that  sparkled. 


156  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

''France/'  said  the  Jackdaw.  * 'We're  well  into 
Prance,  and  quite  safe." 

They  gathered  round  the  ass  and  her  rider,  drew 
breath  in  the  golden  mountain  air,  and  surveyed  this 
promised  land  below.  Even  poor  Ralph  looked  down 
with  hollow  eyes,  and  muttered  something  of  admir- 
ation. The  wild,  scarred  barriers  of  gray  rock,  rolling 
in  gigantic  confusion  round  the  sky,  were  parted 
asunder.  Far  down  among  them,  green,  smooth,  like 
acres  of  lawn,  lay  Bevera  valley.  A  dark,  meander- 
ing river  marred  this  lawn;  and  bridging  the  river 
with  brown-tiled  roofs,  gray  walls,  and  the  stump  of 
its  church  tower,  old  Sospel  sent  up  from  chimneys 
here  and  there  a  few  straight  filaments,  the  early  sac- 
rificial smoke  of  the  workmen's  breakfast. 

Puig  called  Miss  Moultrie's  attention  to  a  long  white 
barracks  encumbering  the  valley  floor,  apart  from 
Sospel  town. 

"There,"  said  he,  "is  the  fools'  golf  house.  I  will 
go  find  a  doctor  there.    Take  this,  Jacko." 

And  he  held  out  his  bundle  of  printed  papers. 

The  Jackdaw  smiled  at  him. 

"No,  keep  it,  Philibert.  I'm  going  myself.  The 
road's  just  below  here.  "Wait  in  the  road  till  I  come 
back  with  a  motor  car." 

So  saying,  Jackdabos  tightened  his  belt,  and  set  off 
running  down  the  bare  hillsides  like  a  Marathon 
man. 


THE  SARACENS*  PATH  157 

* '  Maker  of  Days !  *  *  he  prayed  while  he  ran.  *  *  Hope 
I  Ve  got  enough  money.  Wish  old  Barjavel  had  shot 
his  gold  pieces  our  way.'* 

Ruth  Moultrie  watched  him  flying  downward  from 
undulation  to  undulation  of  the  col.  At  last  he  was 
only  a  white  speck,  dancing  and  wavering  against  the 
rim  of  green  Bevera  valley.  She  stared  after  that 
speck,  intently,  but  with  the  feeling  of  one  lost  in  a 
dream.  It  was  time  for  her  to  be  exhausted :  she  had 
climbed  up,  down,  and  roundabout  all  night,  while 
Ralph,  her  leader  and  chief  adviser,  sat  helpless  wait- 
ing to  be  led:  but  she  was  not  exhausted,  or  even 
pale.  Her  cheeks  burned.  The  Way  of  the  Saracens 
had  put  a  charm  upon  her. 

Less  than  one  hour  later — for  Jackdabos  ran  well — 
she  heard  a  whining  among  the  hills,  and  round  a 
turn  of  the  Col  de  Brouis  road,  where  she  waited  with 
Puig  and  her  brother,  leaped  a  powerful  black  motor- 
car, skimming  the  incline  as  a  bird  skims  upward.  It 
stopped  before  the  ass  could  take  fright.  Out  hopped 
the  Jackdaw,  a  weary  little  god  from  such  a  great 
machine. 

*'The  doctor  will  be  at  the  hotel,"  said  he,  doffing 
his  cap.  **I  made  them  telephone  to  Nice.  Now  if 
monsieur  your  brother  will  let  us  place  him  on 
board?" 

Monsieur  her  brother  was  lifted  carefully  from  the 


158  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

roadside  and  laid  on  leathern  cushions.  The  driver 
at  the  wheel,  a  stoical  young  Frenchman,  scratched 
his  mustache  and  wondered  what  his  passengers  had 
been  doing,  but  did  not  inquire. 

Ruth  leaned  from  the  car  to  say  good-bye.  She  had 
no  leisure  then  to  guess,  and  never  afterward  knew, 
what  meagre  pockets  had  hired  that  vehicle,  or  what 
humiliation  the  Jackdaw,  in  hiring,  had  suffered  from 
lackeys  of  the  rich.  But  she  was  grateful,  and  sorry 
to  part  company. 

''How  can  I  ever  thank  you?'*  she  cried,  as  she 
handed  down  the  Jackdaw's  old  velveteen  coat. 
''Ever?" 

''Pas  de  quoi,"  muttered  Puig. 

The  ass  dropped  her  long  white  ears  forward,  and 
sniffed  the  taint  of  petrol  in  the  morning  air. 

"What  shall  we  do,''  said  Ruth,  "with  our  poor 
donkey?    I  can't  leave  her  like  this." 

The  Jackdaw  stood  thinking  rapidly,  his  hands  deep 
in  the  empty  pockets. 

"I'll  sell  the  donkey  for  you,"  he  replied,  "if  yon 
like.  Sell  her  at  a  good  price,  to  a  woman  who  will 
treat  her  kindly. ' ' 

Ruth  beamed  on  him.  Here,  she  thought,  was  a  man 
who  could  indeed  do  anything,  a  worker  of  opportune 
wonders. 

"Oh,  can  you?"  she  begged.  "It  will  be  a  great 
relief  to  me." 


THE  SARACENS^  PATH  159 

Jackdabos  patted  the  ass's  head. 

**She  will  have  a  good  home/'  he  promised,  '*and 
you  a  good  bargain."  Removing  the  saddle  and  its 
wallets,  he  gave  them  to  the  charioteer.  ''Shall  I 
send  the  money  to  your  hotel  T' 

Ruth  looked  down  at  him  and  hesitated.  She  could 
trust  him,  of  course.  She  had  only  to  consent,  and 
say  good-bye.  They  were  leaving  the  Saracens'  path 
behind  once  for  all. 

"No,"  she  answered,  on  impulse.  "Bring  the 
money." 

He  bowed.  Again  that  sombre  glow  lighted  his 
black  eyes. 

"To-morrow,  mademoiselle?" 

"To-morrow." 

The  stoical  young  driver,  flirting  with  the  laws  of 
gravity,  whisked  his  car  about  on  a  mountain  edge. 
Ruth  turned  and  smiled.  The  two  wanderers,  hold- 
ing the  donkey,  made  an  obeisance  which  lasted  until 
the  turn  of  the  road  intervened,  and  they  stood  alone. 

"Humph!  A  hard  night's  work,"  sighed  Puig, 
with  relief,  as  he  wiped  from  his  cheeks  the  soot  of 
the  burnt  wine-bush.    "We're  well  out  of  that!" 

Jackdabos  remained  listening,  cap  in  hand.  His 
face  wore  a  distant,  preoccupied  expression. 

"Oh,  yes,"  jeered  Puig.  "You'll  see  her  again." 
And  he  crowed  in  mimicking  falsetto:  "To-morrow? 
To-morrow!    I'm  to  be  Queen  of  the  May,  mother!" 


160  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

The  Jackdaw  turned  on  him,  over  the  ass's  mane, 
a  grin  of  humorous  dismay. 

''Don't  be  foolish,  Philibert  le  Beau.'' 

The  freckled  smith  watched  him  like  a  cat. 

"I'm  not  the  fool.  Jacko,  I  warn  you.  Be  care- 
ful." 

For  answer,  Jackdabos  took  hold  of  the  scarlet 
bridle,  and  began  to  lead  the  ass  down-hill.  Down 
and  down  the  road  went  doubling  in  long  loops  round 
spur  after  spur.  Morning  filled  the  green  meadow 
valley  with  brightness. 

''A  magnificent  day,"  sighed  Jackdabos,  quietly  re- 
garding the  grim  Alpine  rocks  patched  with  snow. 
''How  good  to  have  France  under  our  feet  again!  I 
never  feel  at  home  in  Italy." 

"Changing  the  subject,"  quoth  Puig. 

The  other  put  on  injured  innocence. 

"Why,"  said  he,  "I'm  only  going  to  sell  the  girl's 
donkey.  At  a  profit,  mind  you.  She  came  to  the 
right  shop  for  dealings  in  horseflesh  and  assflesh." 

He  led  on,  whistling,  and  spying  round  the  hillside 
after  good  herbs,  with  which  to  make  something  he 
had  just  thought  of. 

' '  Bah  1 ' '  said  Puig.    ' '  I  warn  you. ' ' 


CHAPTER  XIV 


SELLINa  THE  ASS 


S.^A  the  donkey-woman,  on  the  Pronienade  dn 
Midi,  found  her  business  rather  slack  that  afternoon. 
It  was  hot,  the  glare  intense,  the  Gulf  of  Peace  very 
blue  and  tranquil,  with  tiny  waves  which  hardly 
whispered.  Sara,  planting  herself  comfortably  on  the 
stone  wall  above  the  waves,  began  to  knit.  There 
would  be  no  family  parties  riding  in  this  heat.  Her 
squadron  of  asses  knew  as  much,  and  gratefully 
slumbered  at  their  hitching-post.  Sara  rounded  the 
heel  of  a  stocking,  and  watched*  the  wealthy  North- 
erners go  by  so  aimless,  fat,  and  bored,  while  she,  a 
lean,  dark  woman,  thought  of  so  many  things. 

''What  a  pretty  creature!''  exclaimed  another 
woman's  voice  among  the  passing  parasols. 

Sara  glanced  from  her  knitting. 

Out  from  the  greenery  of  the  Carei  gardens  came 
pacing  a  dainty  milk-white  ass,  so  trim,  so  glossy,  so 
meek  and  yet  spirited,  that  she  nyght  worthily  have 
borne  the  Faery  Queen. 

161 


162  THE  KEY  OP  THE  FIELDS 

''Not  bad,''  thought  Sara.  ''Mine  are  growing 
dingy,  poor  cattle." 

The  milk-white  ass  wore  a  scarlet  bridle.  A 
swarthy  little  fellow  in  velveteen  was  leading  her. 
They  came  toward  Sara  on  the  sea-wall. 

"Mother,"  said  Jackdabos,  "what  do  you  think  of 
this?" 

He  grinned  at  Sara,  and  Sara's- brown  face  lighted 
with  sudden  affection. 

"That  boy  again!"  she  cried  for  welcome,  and 
dropped  her  knitting  in  her  lap;  then,  critically: 
"Pipe-clay.  You've  pipe-clayed  her  like  a  circus 
horse.  Is  that  your  profession  now,  Jacko?  Going 
to  sell  me  a  pup  ? ' ' 

The  Jackdaw  scorned  such  talk. 

"Not  for  sale,  mother.  She  belongs  to  the  Great. 
Her  name  is  Mignonette.  She  is  by  Narcissus,  her 
first  dam  Snow-Drop,  second  dam  La  Valliere." 

Sara  picked  up  her  knitting  and  resumed  the  turn 
of  the  heel. 

"You  lie,"  she  stated,  calmly.  "I  can  tell  all  that 
family  by  their  noses.  Better  try  to  sell  me  the  croco- 
dile of  Nimes.  You  are  a  liar,  a  young  liar;  and 
you've  been  giving  the  poor  child  herbs  to  drink." 

"I've  not!"  shouted  Jackdabos.  It  was  exactly 
what  he  had  been  doing.  For  some  "hours  he  had 
scrubbed  and  curried  the  ass,  fed  her,  pipe-clayed 
her,  and  refreshed  her  with  a  drink  of  white  wine 


SELLING  THE  ASS  163 

mixed  with  mountain  herbs.  *'I  have  not.  She's 
entirely  as  you  see  her,  wind  and  limb/' 

He  hopped  up  on  the  sea-wall  and  tucked  his  arm 
round  Sara's  waist. 

**I  always  tell  you  the  truth,  mother,"  he  de- 
clared.   *  *  How  awfully  well  you  look ! ' ' 

Sara  laughed.    She  knew  the  Jackdaw  of  old. 

**How  much  are  you  asking,  Jacko?" 

They  bargained  long  and  shrewdly,  with  great  re- 
spect for  each  other's  wit,  and  with  all  the  joy  of  mer- 
chants from  Cathay.  Jackdabos  argued,  swinging  his 
legs;  Sara  knitted,  and  frowned,  and  repulsed  him 
with  her  elbow;  while  round  them  passed  the  unen- 
joying  crowd,  back  and  forth,  along  the  Promenade 
by  the  blue  sunlit  gulf. 

At  last  they  agreed  on  a  price.  The  Jackdaw 
jumped  down. 

*  *  You  can 't  have  this ! "  He  took  off  the  red  leather 
bridle.    **But  the  rest  is  yours." 

Favoring  her  old  bones,  the  donkey-woman  Sara 
got  down  off  the  wall  and  examined  her  purchase 
again. 

**Who  owned  her?"  she  inquired. 

"A  lady." 

Sara  wagged  a  brown  finger. 

"0  Jackdaw.    Fie!" 

''There's  no  commission  for  me,"  rejoined  the  Jack- 
daw stiffly. 


164  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

They  parted,  each  with  honors  of  war.  Jackdabos 
carried  off  a  goodly  round  sum  of  money,  also  the 
scarlet  bridle  hanging  from  his  hand.  A  few  tour- 
ists, gazing  toward  the  bright  blue  water,  saw  him 
bend  and  embrace  the  donkey's  head.  He  seemed  to 
them  an  unaccountable  young  native.  Sara  herself 
could  not  account  for  him. 

"Why,"  she  demanded,  *'do  you  hug  the  beast?" 

''Why  not?"  said  Jackdabos.  ''It  is  a  good  beast. 
'Alexamenos  worships  his  god,'  maybe.  I  also  am  an 
ass." 

The  dark  Sara  meditated,  standing  amid  her  long- 
eared  troop. 

"The  owner  was  a  lady?"  she  rejoined.  "Look 
out,  my  son.    You  seem  above  yourself.    I  warn  you. ' ' 

That  evening  after  dusk,  when  stars  began  to  peep 
over  Mont  Agel,  there  came  a  loud  knocking  at  the 
door  of  a  man  who  made  majolica.  The  man  opened 
his  door,  and  saw  by  his  lamp-light  a  very  determined, 
sunburnt  face  greeting  him:. 

"You  offered  me  a  job  once,"  said  Jackdabos. 

"More  than  once,"  retorted  the  man.  "More  than 
twice,  young  Skip-the-Hedges. " 

"Advance  me  a  month's  pay.  1 11  come  work  it  out 
later." 

"When?" 

* '  When  I  can, ' '  replied  Jackdabos. 

"That's  cool,"  grumbled  the  man. 


SELLING  THE  ASS  165 

'* Pretty  things,  kickshaws/'  urged  his  visitor.  '*A 
full  month's  work,  all  new  designs  hot  out  o'  my  head : 
what  you  and  your  blessed  tourists  call  charming, 
dainty,  original,  exquisite,  refined,  attractive,  charac- 
teristic, damned  breakable  poppy-cock  and  glaze-bosh. 
To  tickle  the  rich  women.  I  can  make  it.  Pay  me 
now.'' 

** That's  cool,"  said  the  potter  again.  **Come  in. 
Perhaps  ...  If  I  had  the  money  .  .  .  Lots  of  you 
boys  I  wouldn't  trust,  Jacko.     Come  in." 

Later  in  the  same  evening,  a  wheelwright  who  lived 
beside*  Gorbio  Torrent  had  let  his  loft  room  to  a 
familiar  lodger.  Till  midnight,  candles  and  a  bright 
hearth  fire' burned  in  the  wheelwright's  loft,  while  his 
lodger  worked  like  a  noisy  brownie,  whistling  and 
singing.  Jackdabos  had  on  the  floor  his  old  canvas 
bag,  from  the  mouth  of  which  he  carefully  drew  the 
only  good  clothes  he  possessed  in  the  world.  Two 
borrowed  flatirons,  by  the  fire,  stood  heating. 

''Beast,  you  are  nothing  but  wrinkles,"  said  the 
Jackdaw,  holding  up  a  dark-gray  flannel  coat.  ' '  Come, 
submit  to  the  goose.  To-morrow  you  shall  do  your 
master  credit  among  the  English  in  their  earthly  par- 
adise." 

There  were  no  wrinkles  on  Jackdabos  when  to-mor- 
row came,  and  at  four  o'clock  of  a  fine  afternoon  he 
walked  into  the  fools'  golf  house  at  Sospel.  His  gray 
flannel,  smooth  and  modest  as  a  doe's  hide,  brought 


166  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

him  such  credit  that  he  passed  as  one  of  the  worldlings 
crowded  there.  Among  their  babbling  herd  he  moved 
like  a  quiet  little  woodland  spy,  watching,  until  across 
the  lobby  through  tall  window-frames  he  saw  the  shin- 
ing head  that  he  required. 

Euth  was  outdoors  on  the  terrace,  under  one  of  the 
many  red  parasol  tents  that  sheltered  the  tea-tables. 
Alone,  unconscious  of  her  chattering  neighbors,  she 
regarded  thoughtfully  the  green  meadow  below,  where 
sheep  strayed  cropping  near  and  far,  golf -players  fol- 
lowed their  lazy  pastime  over  the  turf,  and  small 
peasant  girls,  bare-legged,  carrying  bags  of  silly  clubs, 
swung  along  with  the  free  stride  of  mountaineers.  Her 
vision  included  them,  but  passed  beyond,  out  from 
the  green,  sunlit  valley  to  another  place,  a  distant 
thought,  a  memory.  She  sat  wondering ;  and  wonder 
softened  her  dark  blue  eyes.  These  holiday  people, 
these  men  in  tweeds  and  women  in  jaunty  costumes, 
appeared  a  feeble  folk,  their  talk  a  vacant  drawling, 
their  meadow  and  terrace  a  gay  and  costly  picture  of 
dulness.  They  were  good  enough  people.  Why  should 
they  be  tiresome?  Euth  looked  at  their  faces,  then 
away  once  more.  B  ever  a  valley  was  not  a  valley  of 
contentment.    There  was  a  world  elsewhere  .  .  . 

Her  mood  was  interrupted.  A  quietly  moving  fig- 
ure paused  beside  her  table. 

Euth  glanced  upward.  It  was  the  sunlight  under 
the  red  parasol,  perhaps,  that  colored  her  cheeks 


I 


SELLING  THE  ASS  167 

*  *  Ah !  * '    She  roused.    *  *  You — ^you  startled  me. " 

It  was  only  Jackdabos,  but  he  arrived  as  promptly 
and  silently  as  if  her  thought  had  called  him,  a  spirit 
from  that  world  elsewhere.  He  bowed,  hat  under  arm, 
with  a  formal  but  inborn  grace.  Not  one  tea-drinker 
on  the  terrace  could  have  bowed  so,  or  worn  so  like 
a  garment  the  breath  of  life,  the  air  of  nature. 

**You  sold  my  poor  pet?''  said  Kuth.  **I  am  sorry 
to  lose  her." 

*'Yes,''  replied  Jackdabos.  ''But  she  will  live  in 
clover.  She  will  carry  nothing  heavier  than  some 
pretty  little  English  child.  I  think  she  brought  a  fair 
price.'' 

He  named  the  sum,  and  learned  with  disappoint- 
ment that  it  signified  nothing.  Ruth's  face,  indeed, 
grew  troubled.  She  thought  this  child  of  nature  might 
suddenly  pour  handfuls  of  money  on  the  tea-table. 
Then  she  felt  ashamed  of  her  fears. 

**I  left  it  at  the  office,"  continued  the  Jackdaw. 
''Mademoiselle  is  quite  satisfied?  I  have  the  honor 
to  wish  her  good  evening,  and  a  happy  recovery  to 
monsieur  her  brother." 

Again  he  bowed,  and  turned  to  go.  Ruth  made  a 
little  gesture  that  detained  him. 

"You  have  been  ever  so  kind,"  she  said.  "How 
can  we  show  our  gratitude?  I  was  thinking  only 
now — ^I  wish " 

She  broke  off,  timid  and  confused.    The  young  man 


168  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

smiled,  with  a  brave  sadness  that  comprehended  all. 

^* Good-bye/'  said  he. 

Before  she  answered,  there  befell  an  unexpected 
thing.  Toward  them  along  the  terrace  came  a  woman 
dressed  in  white, — a  slender  woman  neither  young  nor 
old,  but  of  ageless  beauty,  though  a  silver  frost 
touched  her  black  hair  curving  from  the  tem- 
ples. A  murmur  followed  her  passage,  for  all  the 
worldlings  knew  her  and  sat  staring  admiration.  The 
Princess — ^the  lady  into  whose  house  Jackdabos  had 
once  lied  his  way — advanced  directly  to  Euth,  who 
rose. 

"My  dear  girl,"  said  the  Princess,  kissing  her,  **I'm 
so  glad  your  brother's  accident  was  no  worse.  Can 
he  be  moved?  You  must  come  to  me  now  instead  of 
later.    The  villa  is  quite  empty." 

Both  ladies  sat  down,  in  a  pretty  flutter  of  talk 
which  left  the  Jackdaw  standing  forgotten.  He  was 
about  to  steal  away,  when  the  Princess  remembered 
her  manners  and  cast  him  a  glance. 

'*What?  My  little  friend?"  she  asked,  in  a  sur- 
prise which  turned  to  welcome.  *'My  little  friend 
of  the  cigala?  Oh,  do  sit  down.  I  have  another 
scolding  for  you. ' ' 

Thus  it  happened  that  Jackdabos,  who  had  ironed 
his  clothes  at  the  wheelwright's  for  the  sake  of  a 
moment,  of  a  look  and  a  word,  found  himself  drinking 
tea  with  two  incomparable  ladies.    Their  tilted  scar- 


SELLING  THE  ASS  169 

let  parasol  became  the  centre  of  the  terrace,  the 
cynosure  of  envious  eyes.  Their  glory  daunted  him. 
at  first ;  but  he  took  heart,  and  from  answering  their 
questions  politely,  soon  was  carried  into  the  history 
of  last  night,  the  tale  of  the  Saracens '  Path,  and  even 
some  guarded  hints  of  the  Trojan  Plate.  He  told  it 
all  funnily  and  well,  Buth  and  the  Princess  urging 
him  with  laughter.  When  he  ended,  the  sun  had 
crept  off  the  greensward,  the  evening  chill  had  over- 
taken them,  and  time  to  go  indoors. 

"Remember/*  said  the  Princess,  when  they  ex- 
changed good-night,  *'you*re  coming  to  the  villa,  to- 
morrow week,  to  spend  the  afternoon.  Remember. 
We  do  not  trust  you,  little  wretch.*' 

Sunset  lighted  his  homeward  way  along  the  wind- 
ing road,  till  he  passed  by  ruined  Castillon  and  gained 
the  crest;  then  sunset  burned  above  the  violet  im- 
mensity of  the  Guardia  rocks,  as  though  all  the  world 
behind  them  were  blazing  fire.  Jackdabos  had 
climbed  quickly;  now  he  went  lagging  down  Carei 
gorges,  so  thoughtful  and  with  such  retarded  step 
that  the  greenish  lamps  of  Mentone  garlanded  the 
shore  below,  and  the  large  moon  rose  over  the  sea, 
long  before  he  came  to  his  wheelwright's  house.  All 
the  way  he  carried  an  inward  joy,  a  secret  exaltation 
which  seemed  greater  than  the  mountains,  brighter 
than  the  evening  air. 


170  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

"It  is  not  over.''  He  hugged  that  fact  in  his 
bosom.    ''It  is  not  over  yet." 

On  the  next  day,  and  six  days  following,  his  friend 
the  potter  had  a  new  man  who  worked  early  and  late 
with  a  concentrated  fury  of  execution.  Jackdabos 
was  over-paying  his  debt. 

*'Stay  a  full  year  with  me,"  begged  the  potter,  in 
tears,  "and  we  shall  make  our  fortune." 

The  Jackdaw  shook  his  head. 

"I'm  serving  one  week  of  my  sentence,"  he 
laughed.  "The  rest  will  have  to  wait.  After  to-mor- 
row ...  I  don't  know  what  may  happen  after  to- 
morrow." 

With  that,  the  laughter  died  from  his  face,  and 
he  walked  sombrely  out  of  the  potter's  trellised  gar- 
den, leaving  unfinished,  on  his  bench,  a  medallion  of 
the  Flight  into  Egypt. 

"If  I  have  to  chain  him!"  raged  his  master,  staring 
at  it.    "Why,  this  would  take  old  Luca  himself!" 

Without  thought  of  any  such  triumph,  the  Jack- 
daw went  rambling  down  the  road,  then  through  one 
street  after  another,  aimlessly.  It  was  early  dusk,  not 
yet  the  lamplighter's  hour,  and  many  foreigners  loit- 
ered still  on  their  way  home  from  their  afternoon 
idleness.  The  Jackdaw  passed  with  them,  dejected, 
along  an  avenue  where  spotted  sycamore  pillars  up- 
held a  canopy  of  young  leaves  and  wiry  branches 
and  balls  against  the  failing  sky.    A  man  came  push- 


SELLING  THE  ASS  171 

ing  a  small  water-cart,  like  a  black  dust-bin  on  wheels, 
which  unrolled  along  the  pavement  a  dark  ribbon  of 
moisture,  printed  with  letters  where  the  stone  re- 
mained dry.  **Nice.  Cafe  Lascaris,  Nice.  .  .  ."ran 
the  gray  legend  underfoot,  in  wearisome  repetition. 
On  the  top  of  the  water-box  lay  a  flat  paper  parcely 
The  cart-wheel,  in  passing,  grazed  the  Jackdaw's  leg. 

"Pardon  me,  sir,"  grunted  the  modern  Aquarius. 
Then  he  looked  up,  and  caught  Jackdabos  by  the 
sleeve,  roughly.    *  *  What ! ' '  said  he.    ' '  Hold  on ! " 

The  hand-cart  man  was  Puig — ^but  Puig  worn  to 
an  anxious,  freckled  shadow  of  himself. 

**Jacko!''  he  exclaimed,  miserably.  '*IVe  been 
looking  all  over  Tophet  for  you!" 

The  Jackdaw  stared. 

'*Why  did  you  run  away,  then,  and  desert  me?" 

Puig  let  the  accusation  go  unanswered.  It  was 
true.  He  had  basely  carried  off  the  Helen  of  Troy 
treasure,  and  vanished,  while  his  friend  was  busy 
with  greater  affairs. 

**See  what  IVe  come  to!"  He  kicked  the  push- 
cart, which  stood  drowning  its  own  print.  **To  this. 
I  'm  nigh  starving ! "  He  took  up  from  his  water-box 
the  paper  parcel,  and  shook  it  like  a  dog  worrying 
a  bone.  His  green  eyes  shone  hollow  and  desperate. 
**Your  filthy  species  of  a  plate,  it's  killing  me.  I 
can't  sell  it.  Who'd  buy  that,  from  a  scarecrow  like 
met    I  can't  sleep  at  night  for  fear  o'  thieves,  can't 


172  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

leave  it  anywhere,  daytime.  What  kind  of  a  job 
could  I  get,  this  devil's  thing  always  under  my  arm? 
Worse  than  being  chained  to  a  corpse.  It's  your 
fault,  too.  Bah!  Have  to  carry  the  great  lump  of 
a  howling  fraud  on  a  Push-Cart!    A  Leak-Box!" 

He  bellowed  the  words,  and  spat  with  frenzy.  Pas- 
sers-by looked  curiously  at  him.  It  was  plain  that  he 
had  spoken  one  truth,  at  least,  for  his  cheeks  were 
gaunt  and  fevered  with  wakefulness. 

**This  is  nowhere  to  talk,"  replied  the  Jackdaw, 
quietly.  *'Come  see  me  to-night,  at  the  wheel- 
wright's." 

Puig  thrust  out  his  heavy  parcel. 

'*Take  it  off  my  hands,  anyway,"  said  he.  ** You've 
got  good  clothes:  maybe  you  can  peddle  it.  I'm 
done!" 

He  slammed  the  treasure  into  Jackdaw's  arms. 

**I'm  done!"  he  roared,  in  a  passion. 

*'What  do  you  expect  me " 

** Don't  care,"  bawled  Puig,  fiercer  than  ever.  *'Do 
what  you  like. "  He  seemed  beside  himself .  **If  you 
cheat  me,  I'll  kill  you."  Then,  with  a  reckless  fling 
of  the  arm,  as  though  giving  empires  away — ^'^What 
do  I  care  about  your  trumpery?" 

The  Jackdaw  stood  pitying  him,  though  smiling. 
Thirst  of  gold  was  on  the  man,  the  cup  at  his  lips, 
and  he  could  not  drink. 

*'Come  see  me  to-night." 


SELLING  THE  ASS  173 

"Good,"  sighed  Puig.  "That's  a  relief.''  He 
grasped  the  handles  of  his  water  printing-press,  and 
grew  visibly  calmer.    "I'll  drop  round." 

They  were  parting,  when  to  a  halt  at  the  curb,  a 
few  paces  off,  there  softly  trundled  a  long  gray 
motor  car,  its  varnish  glimmering  in  the  twilight. 
The  driver,  a  tall  man,  climbed  out  and  came  forward 
to  bend  over  his  lamps. 

Puig,  watching  him  mechanically,  gave  a  start  and 
let  go  the  handles  again. 

"I  see  the  Devil!"  he  murmured;  then,  with  a 
kind  of  joyful  snarl — "I  see  the  Devil!" 

He  turned  on  Jackdabos  a  happy  face,  the  face  of 
a  man  to  whom  the  gods  have  blown  a  windfall. 

'That's  the  fellow!"  he  sang,  and  cracked  his  hands 
together.    ' '  The  fellow  that  killed  my  dog ! " 

In  two  bounds  Puig  crossed  the  pavement  and  had 
the  tall  man  by  the  ears.  Women  screamed.  A  crowd 
came  running  to  gather,  and  push,  and  question,  and 
foUoAv  a  fight  that  rolled  along  the  gutter.  Uniforms 
of  the  police  colored  the  general  grayness  of  the 
tumult. 

"I  don't  care!"  whooped  a  voice,  presently,  from 
under  a  wall  of  legs.  "Go  on!  I  spoilt  his  looks,  I 
spoilt  his  collars  and  things!"  It  choked,  but  burst 
out  anew.  "He  killed  my  dog,  and  I  .  .  .  Take  me, 
go  on,  take  me!    I  don't  care!" 

The  voice  was  borne  away  on  the  stream  of  the 


174  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

crowd.  Lost  to  view,  but  chanting  in  praise  of  des- 
tiny, Puig  vanished  toward  whatever  dungeon  might 
be  ordained. 

His  water-cart  stood  flooding  the  pavement ;  and  be- 
side it  Jackdabos  grew  aware  that  he  was  left  alone  in 
the  world  with  something  heavy. 

Under  his  arm  he  carried  Puig's  legacy,  the  Trojan 
plate. 


CHAPTER  XV 


CALLERS 


A  BLAMELESS  old  man,  a  white-haired  major-domo 
whose  only  sin  it  was  to  wear  forked  whiskers 
and  a  Pecksniff  collar,  sat  in  a  quiet  comer  of  the 
Villa  Pervinca  and  read  his  own  pet  Journal,  He 
read  peacefully.  There  were  guests  in  the  house,  and 
guests  were  rare  nowadays;  but  these,  although  they 
had  thrown  him  into  a  heat  by  coming  suddenly,  gave 
little  or  no  trouble.  A  young  gentleman  with  his  leg 
broken ;  a  charming  young  lady  whose  dark-blue  eyes 
did  not  overlook  the  merits  of  a  major-domo:  it  was 
easy  to  live  under  the  same  roof  with  them,  to  main- 
tain the  settled  calm  of  the  household. 

A  bell  rang. 

"Tish!'*  The  old  man  lost  the  point  of  a  lively 
paragraph.  ** That  front  door  again!  Ah,  yes,  there 
was  to  be  a  caller.'* 

He  folded  his  paper,  smoothed  his  black  coat,  and 
went  with  pontifical  meekness  to  open  the  door. 

175 


176  THE  KEY  OP  THE  FIELDS 

A  very  alert  young  gentleman  in  gray  stood  wait- 
ing on  the  doorstep. 

*' Ah,  monsieur  le  vicomte/'  murmured  the  old  man, 
vaguely.    ''The  ladies  are  in  the  garden,  sir.'' 

His  memory  had  failed  of  late,  and  caused  him 
perplexity;  but  perhaps  the  young  gentleman  would 
take  no  offence,  even  though  the  title  were  inade- 
quate and  wrong.  Fluttering  with  pleasant  agitation, 
he  led  the  caller  through  the  sunny  hallway,  to  the 
glass  door  and  the  inner  garden  path. 

''Ill  find  them,''  said  the  viscount,  smiling,  and 
went  down  the  slope  among  winding  flower  borders 
and  tall  pine-tree  shade.  He  carried  a  green  baize 
bag  under  one  arm. 

"I  ought  to  have  known  his  face,"  thought  the 
major-domo.    "It  is  a  highly  distinguished  face.'^ 

Thus,  altered  by  fine  apparel  and  an  English  hat 
bought  with  the  potter's  money,  Jackdabos,  that 
Apache  who  once  had  burst  his  way  into  the  villa, 
wandered  freely  through  a  bright,  enchanted  garden. 
Green  lawns  curved  under  pines  and  laurels,  down 
toward  a  limestone  parapet  which  overlooked  the 
sparkling  blue  of  the  Ligurian  Sea.  From  somewhere 
on  that  sunny  verge  came  a  quiet  sound  of  voices.  The 
Jackdaw  descended,  following  the  sound,  and  carry- 
ing his  green  baize  bag. 

Behind  the  bayonet  clusters  and  fiery-pointed  blos- 
soms of  an  aloe  screen,  on  a  high-backed  stone  bench 


CALLERS  177 

covered  with  blue-and-white  cushions,  sat  Ruth  and 
her  hostess,  bare-headed,  in  the  sun. 

**6ood  afternoon, '^  said  the  Jackdaw. 

Both  ladies  wore  white;  both  were  laughing  when 
he  arrived;  both  greeted  him  kindly  and  made  room 
on  the  curved  settle.  The  Princess  had  at  her  throat, 
like  a  sign  of  welcome,  the  little  silver  brooch,  the 
cigala  that  he  had  made  long  ago. 

**I  have  brought  you  a  curious  thing  to  see,*'  de- 
clared the  Jackdaw,  when  for  a  time  they  had  talked 
of  passing  matters.    **A  most  curious  thing.*' 

Loosening  the  puckered  mouth  of  his  new  baize 
bag,  he  drew  out  an  oval  shield  of  gold,  which  dazzled 
the  eyes. 

*Ah!*'  sighed  Ruth,  as  though  frightened.  Her 
hand  touched  his  by  chance,  receiving  the  Trojan 
plate. 

*  *  How  lovely ! ' '  said  the  Princess,  turning  her  dark 
eyes  on  his  face.  *'You  made  it?  Yes,  it  is  more  of 
your  work." 

The  Jackdaw's  cheeks  grew  red.  His  heart  melted 
at  this  heavenly  compliment. 

**If  it  were!"  he  cried.  '*0  ladies  ...  if  it  only 
were,  I  could  give  it  to  you." 

They  bent  their  heads  together  over  the  gleaming 
field  of  the  legend ;  and  there  in  the  garden  sunlight, 
while  the  ocean  and  the  dark  pine  branches  breathed 
unheard  mysteries  round  them,  they  saw  the  walls  of 


178  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

Troy,  and  dreamed  the  sorrowful  dream  of  Helen 
above  the  gate,  yearning  for  her  brothers  among  the 
helmeted  host. 

'*Not  yours  r*  said  the  Princess,  doubtfully. 

Jackdabos  would  have  died  for  her. 

'  *  It 's  Benvenuto  's, ' '  he  replied.    ' '  I  will  tell  you. ' ' 

They  listened  to  the  story  like  people  transported 
beyond  the  bounds  of  the  present  world. 

**It's  not  mine,''  he  concluded.  **Not  mine  in  any 
sense.  "Who  could  own  such  a  thing?  Tell  me."  He 
appealed  to  them  as  to  old  friends,  infallible  judges. 
*'We  dug  it  up  in  Goiffon's  garden.  Should  we  send 
it  to  Goiffon's  widow,  the  lady  at  Aries  who  told 
my  fortune?" 

*'No,"  answered  the  Princess,  thoughtfully.  ''That 
would  be  useless,  for  I  know  Madame  Goiffon  would 
never  accept  it.  She  was  too  happy  in  her  little 
garden,  and  cannot  bear  reminders." 

Jackdabos  groaned. 

*'Then  what  the  dickens  to  do  with  it,"  he  de- 
clared, *'I  do  not  know." 

They  all  gazed  down  again  into  the  golden  myth, 
and  again  lived  through  that  moment  on  the  ScaBan 
Gate.  The  splendor  of  it,  actual  no  more  than  spirit- 
ual, shone  upward  on  Ruth's  face  and  in  her  eyes. 
Jackdabos,  close  beside  her,  knew  that  she  was  con- 
scious of  his  thought. 

Footsteps  came  grating  the  sanded   path.     The 


CALLERS  179 

major-domo  stood  before  them,  bowing  his  white  head. 

"Madam's  brother/'  said  he,  *'is  at  the  house.'' 

The  Princess  rose  quickly  from  their  bench  under 
the  aloes. 

**I  will  come  back,  children,"  she  said;  in  haste. 

When  she  was  gone  behind  the  green  bayonet  leaves, 
Ruth  and  the  Jackdaw  sat  down  together,  alone,  awk- 
ward, and  constrained.  Ruth  put  the  Trojan  plate 
between  them,  glistening  on  the  blue-and-white  cush- 
ions. For  a  time  they  watched  the  sea  below  their 
limestone  parapet, — a  band  of  azure  light  broken, 
far  off,  by  the  dark  Dog's  Head  and  the  low,  wavy 
shadow  of  Cap  Ferrat. 

**How,"  said  the  girl,  by  and  by,  ''was  your  for- 
tune to  come?" 

'*My  fortune?"    Jackdabos  wondered  at  her. 

"That  the  woman  in  Aries  told  you." 

He  remembered  then  his  mention  of  it,  recalled 
once  more  a  dark  lady  who  lay  in  a  wheeled  chair 
beside  a  bowl  of  wavering  goldfish,  and  foretold  her 
fancies. 

"Why,"  he  answered,  leaning  on  his  knees,  "it  was 
nothing.  .  .  .  She  said  I  must  follow  beauty  with 
eyes  open.  Beauty  would  come  to  me  from  something 
old.    Yes,  from  old  stones." 

Ruth  looked  toward  him,  then  down  at  the  sea. 

"Did  it?"  she  asked,  and  touched  the  golden  plate^ 

Jackdabos  gave  a  start,  and  sat  upright. 


180  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

*'You  too,"  said  he,  *'are  a  sorceress.  We  dug  it 
up  near  a  Roman  ruin."  He  remained  silent.  The 
pines,  or  the  ocean,  filled  a  long  interval  with  sigh- 
ing. He  spoke  at  last,  hoarsely.  '*But  the  ramparts 
of  Aigues-Mortes  are  old  likewise,  and  built  of  stone. 
— I  saw  you  there." 

Ruth  managed  to  withdraw  her  eyes  from  that  blue 
gulf  beyond  the  garden  rim.  She  found  the  Jack- 
daw's face  grown  pale  under  its  sunburn,  his  lips 
quivering. 

The  Trojan  plate  lay  between  them,  and  flashed 
like  a  dividing  sword. 

''I  saw  you  there,"  he  repeated. 

Fear,  panic  fear  of  what  the  next  moment  might 
bring  to  pass,  a  sense  of  being  hemmed  about  by 
mightier  spells  than  any  this  young  conjurer  could 
weave,  took  hold  of  her  in  silence  and  trembling.  Yet 
these  terrors  came  by  no  fault  of  his,  nor  was  the 
light  in  his  black  eyes  any  false,  earthly  fire.  She 
waited.  "Whatever  he  said  now  would  be  inevitable, 
not  his  own  words  merely  but  the  utterance  of  that 
meaning  which  hovered  closer  and  closer  round  them, 
as  vast  and  as  clear  as  the  sunshine. 

It  was  broken,  dispersed  for  the  moment. 

A  sound  of  music  floated  down  through  the  garden, 
over  the  scarlet  aloe  points.  In  the  villa  someone 
with  vigorous  hand  struck  a  few  rollicking  chords  that 
rang  from  the  open  windows.    Then  a  voice,  a  lusty 


CALLERS  181 

barytone,  broke  into  song.    It  was  the  old  song  of  the 

"Rt.triplr  SVipnTi  prrl  • 


Ettrick  Shepherd 


'*  'My  love,  sJie's  hut  a  lassie  yet, 
A  lightsome,  lovely  lassie  yet, 
It  scarce  would  do 
To  sit  and  woo 
Down  by  the  stream  sae  glassy  yet,'  " 

Jackdabos  recoiled  in  amazement,  then  sprang  up- 
ward, one  knee  on  the  bench. 

**That?"  he  stammered.  *'That  voice  is  Barjavel. 
What  is  Barjavel  doing  here  ?  * ' 

Ruth  listened.  They  watched  each  other,  these  two 
children  whom  the  Princess  had  left  alone,  while  the 
song  drifted  over  them  toward  the  sea. 

"  'But  there's  a  hraw  time  comin'  yet. 
When  we  may  gang  a-roamin'  yet; 
And  hint  wi*  glee  .  .  .'  " 

Jackdabos  rose  from  the  bench,  and  stood  on  foot. 

**True,"  he  said,  harshly.  **  Whoever  it  is,  that*s 
not  by  chance.    And  it's  true." 

Her  head  was  crowned  with  a  brightness  greater 
than  Benvenuto's  metal.  Jackdabos  looked  down  on 
it  as  though  for  a  lifetime. 

''A  man  should  have  a  name,  at  least,"  he  said. 
"Mine's  nothing  but  a  poor  joke." 


182  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

Ruth  was  up  in  a  flash  of  indignation. 

''It's  you!"  she  cried,  facing  him,  at  once  angry 
and  overjoyed.  ''A  name?  It's  what  you  do! 
There's  nobody  like  you  .  .  .*' 

He  bowed  gravely. 

*'Let  me  be  the  woman,"  she  hurried  on,  **to  tell 
your  fortune."  She  pointed  down  at  the  shining 
picture  of  Troy.  *'It  is  pretty — yes,  too  pretty,  fini- 
kin, womanish.  Your  work  must  be  a  man's  in  every 
line.  You  said  I  couldn't  understand  men,  but  I  can 
tell.  That?"  She  east  another  motion  of  contempt 
on  the  golden  wonder.  *'You  shall  make  me  some- 
thing finer  than  that,  a  hundred  times!" 

The  Jackdaw  stared  like  a  man  waking. 

''Finer?    For  you ?"  he  whispered.    "By  the 

Lord,  I'll  try!" 

As  if  blinded  by  this  idea,  he  bent  down  and 
groped  for  his  hat  among  the  cushions ;  then  he  stood 
handling  the  brim,  twisting  the  plaited  straw  back 
and  forth  mechanically. 

"I'll  try,"  he  repeated. 

"The  woman  at  Aries j"  continued  Ruth, — ^"what 
did  she  say?" 

He  told  her,  briefly. 

"Are  your  eyes  open?"  said  the  girl. 

' '  Yes. ' '    He  laughed,  proudly.    ' '  They  are. ' ' 

"Then  follow  it  with  your  eyes  open,"  she  com- 
manded.   "That  is  what  we  expect  of  you." 


CALLERS  183 

Jackdabos  turned  abruptly,  walked  away  down  one 
of  the  flowering  alleys,  halted  in  some  hidden  part 
of  the  garden,  and  presently  came  marching  back 
like  a  soldier. 

**Make  my  good-bye  to  the  Princess,  please,''  he 

begged  lightly.     **I  cannot  bear "     He  waited 

until  he  could  smile.  ** Don't  expect  too  much.  It 
will  be  a  long  day." 

' '  Perhaps, ' '  Ruth  assented.    '  *  A  long  day. ' ' 

Avoiding  glances,  they  stood  side  by  side  and 
looked  beyond  the  tops  of  rosemary  and  laurel  fring- 
ing the  cliffs,  to  where  the  blue  gulf  moved  and 
shimmered  toward  them  from  the  tranquil  west. 

** Light  of  Earth,"  said  the  Jackdaw  at  last. 

No  one  could  have  told  whom  the  words  were 
spoken  to! 

He  turned. 

Ruth  lifted  the  Trojan  plate,  and  thrust  it  into  the 
green  baize  bag. 

**Here,  then." 

'*Keep  it,"  replied  Jackdabos. 

*'No,"  she  said,  scornfully.  *'Am  I  not  to  have 
something  better  ? ' ' 

At  that  they  laughed  and  their  eyes  met.  Neither 
spoke  again.  Then  the  Jackdaw,  swinging  his  bag 
over  his  shoulder,  wheeled  about  face  and  rushed  off 
up  the  garden  hillside.  He  dared  not  look  behind, 
but  ran  across  lawns  and  skipped  the  flower-beds, 


184  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

making  directly  for  the  kitchen  end  of  the  villa  and 
the  servants'  gate,  where  he  might  slip  out  unob- 
served. 

From  the  open  windows  above  the  slant  pine 
branches  came,  as  before,  the  tinkle  of  a  piano,  mer- 
rily played,  and  a  barytone  voice  that  rolled  out  the 
Ettrick  Shepherd's  song: 

"  'But  {here's  a  hraw  time  comin'  yet, 

When  we  may  gang  a-roamin*  yet  ,  .  ,'  '* 

Ruth  heard  it,  on  her  sunny  ocean  crag  under  the 
aloes. 

'*I  wonder,"  she  thought,  clasping  her  hands — 
weak  hands  that  had  no  skill  in  them.  *'I  wonder. 
Oh,  the  poor  boy!  My  poor  brave  wonder  of  a  boy, 
going  alone!" 

Jackdabos  also  heard  the  promise  of  the  song,  while 
he  carefully  shut  the  gate  and  paused,  hesitating, 
under  evergreen  shadows  in  the  avenue.  He  did  not 
see  much  of  that  environment.  His  eyes  indeed  were 
open,  but  to  another  world. 

'* Maybe,"  he  said.    ''Maybe." 

Something  wet  had  touched  his  hard  brown  cheek. 

*'Damn,  it's  not  raining!"  he  grumbled.  **And 
now  we  know  Her,  by  the  great  horns  of  Moses,  but 
we  can  sing  like  any  of  them." 

Down  the  road  he  went,  lifting  his  voice  as  best  he 


CALLERS  185 

could  contrive.    It  was  poor  singing,  and  a  hackneyed 
old  air: 

"  'Faitesy  reine  immortelle, 
Lui  dit'U  en  partant, 
Que  yaime  la  plus  helle 
Et  sois  le  plus  vaUlant,'  " 

Ruth  did  not  hear  that  challenge  to  the  world.    She 
sat  pondering  over  the  feebleness  of  womankind. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

A  MATTER  OF  ANTIQUITY 

The  world,  being  old  and  deaf  to  challenges,  went 
on  its  way.  Cold  weather  fell  during  the  night;  so 
that  when  Jaekdabos  looked  from  the  wheelwright's 
upper  window  next  morning,  he  saw,  beyond  young 
sycamore  leaves,  all  the  mountains  white  with  snow, 
like  enormous  tents  pitched  aloft  in  a  sharp,  blue, 
wintry  heaven.  He  needed  courage  to  go  down  and 
bathe  among  the  rocks  of  Gorbio  stream.  After  bath- 
ing, he  was  glad  to  stand  by  the  forge-fire,  and  pump 
a  groaning  bellows,  while  his  landlord  hammered  out 
a  pair  of  trace-chain  hooks. 

''Many  a  blow,"  grunted  the  wheelwright,  who  was 
a  sturdy,  bent  old  man  with  a  face  like  that  of  some 
humorous  gray  bear,  "many  blows  to  make  a  man's 
fortune.*' 

Sparks — ^long,  white-hot,  fuzzy  stars — spattered 
from-  anvil  to  doorway;  the  double  chiming  of  iron 
rang  in  the  darkness. 

186 


A  MATTER  OF  ANTIQUITY  187 

*'I  was  thinking  that  very  same  thing/'  said  the 
Jackdaw,  mournfully,  at  his  pump-handle. 

**You?  You're  too  young,"  rejoined  the  leather- 
clad  veteran,  laughing  and  smiting.  *  *  But  remember, 
son,  the  blows  are  better  than  the  fortune.    Always. ' ' 

Fortified  with  this  doctrine  and  warmed  by  the 
work,  Jackdabos  set  forth  early  to  begin  his  own 
campaign.  It  was  a  brilliant  morning,  the  sunshine 
that  of  spring,  but  the  air  keen  as  autumn;  for  the 
mistral,  blowing  high  overhead,  made  its  passage 
known  by  a  tingling  in  the  nostrils  and  a  dry  clear- 
ness of  vision.  Above  glittering  palms,  bright  gar- 
dens, and  mild  orangeries,  the  mountains  impended 
solemnly  with  pinnacles  of  snow  and  torn  bare  preci- 
pices cinder-black  against  a  chill  sky,  desolately  blue. 
Jackdabos  walked  briskly  on  a  high  road  behind  the 
town,  making  for  the  rocky  defiles  of  Pont  Saint 
Louis  and  the  Italian  border. 

**Only  Barjavel  remains,"  he  thought.  ''I  must 
tell  Barjavel  my  woes." 

But  when  he  had  crossed  the  frontier  and  arrived 
at  that  wall  among  mountain  heather  over  which 
peeped  the  rose-colored  front  and  the  lemon-tree  tops 
of  Goiffon's  house,  he  knew  his  journey  was  in  vain. 
Shuttered  windows,  a  smokeless  chimney,  and  pro- 
found silence  declared  the  place  empty.  Jackdabos 
pulled  a  bell-handle  in  the  wall  beside  the  gate.  After 
long  waiting,  he  pulled  again,  and  yet  again.    At  last 


188  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

came  a  sound  of  footsteps  inside  the  garden,  a  wicket 
suddenly  opened  in  the  gate,  and  through  the  round 
hole  peered  a  little,  shrewd,  red  face  like  the  face  of 
a  very  old  English  Punch. 

This,  thought  Jackdabos,  must  be  Rene  the  faithful. 

*  *  Monsieur  Bar  javel  ? ' ' 

The  eyes  of  Punch  twinkled. 

**No,"  said  Rene.  *'You  have  come  to  the  wrong 
house,  my  friend.'' 

He  was  about  to  slide  the  wicket  shut.  Jackdabos 
hooked  one  finger  over  the  edge  of  the  hole. 

* '  Your  master,  then  ? ' ' 

''Not  at  home.'' 

*'0h!"  cried  the  Jackdaw  in  despair,  and  drew  bow 
at  a  venture.  ''I'm  a  friend  of  his.  Tell  me.  Is 
he  not  visiting  his  sister?" 

The  little,  sharp,  watery  eyes  blinked — once,  and  no 
more,  but  enough  to  show  that  the  question  had  hit 
fairly. 

"I  cannot  say,  sir." 

Jackdabos  withdrew  his  finger,  let  the  wicket  close, 
for  a  moment  stared  at  the  blank  timber  of  the  gate, 
then  turned  and  went  back,  despondently,  by  the  path 
he  had  come. 

"No  use,"  he  told  himself,  wandering  with  chin  on 
bosom.  "  I  'm  alone.  Bar  javel 's  gone.  I  did  know  his 
voice  in  the  garden  yesterday.  Gone?  There  never 
was  any  Bar  javel.    He's  the  Princess's  brother;  one 


A  MATTER  OP  ANTIQUITY  189 

of  the  great,  merely  joking  with  us  for  a  pastime." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  miserably,  as  he  walked. 

'^Barjavel  gone.  Puig  in  jail.  And  we  were  like 
three  brothers  going  to  accomplish  fine  things.  Bah ! 
I  make  you  a  present  of  the  lot ! ' ' 

He  marched  on  heavily,  across  the  high  bridge  into 
France,  down  the  rocky  hills  to  the  sea,  and  then 
among  the  wearisome  ** trippers''  promenading  the 
Midi  shore.  Suddenly  he  left  this  crowded  embank- 
ment, and  plunged  into  the  streets  of  Mentone ;  for  he 
did  not  care  to  pass  the  donkey-stand,  or  meet  Sara, 
or  see  a  little  white  ass.  Indifferent  to  all  the  rest,  he 
wandered  across  town,  through  the  Dragonni^re,  up 
over  a  wooded  shjoulder  of  Cap  Martin,  and  so  round- 
about with  lonely  thoughts. 

The  wheelwright's  maxim,  after  all,  seemed  to 
point  the  one  way  out  of  his  distress.  Many  blows, 
nothing  but  hard  blows  well  struck,  would  bring  a 
man  through  to  fortune;  though  here  was  this  Cel- 
lini platter,  of  course,  which  if  cunningly  sold  would 
fetch  at  once  more  than  a  lifetime  of  poor  man's  earn- 
ing.   Even  the  gold,  melted  down  .  .  . 

Jackdabo*  halted,  overborne  by  disgust. 

* '  Temptation  ?  "  he  said  to  himself.  * '  Temptation  ? 
Bah,  if  I  sold  it,  then,  would  that  be  fortune?  No, 
my  Jacko,  the  trouble  is  inside  us.  Eiches  do  not 
improve  the  inside." 


190  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

Eiches  would  not  serve.  He  frowned,  and  scratched 
the  top  of  his  ear. 

^*I  left  that  green  bag/'  he  remembered,  '*on  the 
table  upstairs.  Beelzebub  and  Hobbididence  know 
who  may  have  stolen  it  by  now !  One  cannot  go  prop- 
erly to  work  with  that  damned  treasure  always  lying 
undigested  on  the  mind.  I  shall  come,  like  Puig, 
to  a  Leak-Box ! ' ' 

He  raised  his  head  and  looked  about,  to  see  where 
the  consideration  of  this  quandary  had  led  him. 

*'Must  be  somewhere  near  Cabbe  Roquebrune.^' 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  had  strayed  into  a  little 
depression  among  the  hills,  an  oval  amphitheatre  of 
lawn  surrounded  by  olive  groves.  The  clear  sunshine 
of  a  mistral  day  poured  through  the  trees,  flooded  the 
level  green  turf,  and  brightened  a  host  of  gay  ban- 
ners, the  tricolor,  which  waved  from  mast  to  mast  in  a 
woodland  circuit.  Jackdabos  knew  the  place,  even 
before  spying  the  many  white- washed  bars  and  hurdles 
encumbering  the  lawn.  It  was  the  place  of  the  Con- 
cours  Hippique.  A  few  stable-boys  were  leading 
blanketed  horses  back  and  forth  under  the  edge  of  the 
trees;  and  out  in  the  central  sunlight  a  young  army 
officer  rode  a  glossy  bay  mare  who  winced  over  the 
green  like  a  vain  dancer. 

*' Straighten  the  jump  there,  will  you?''  called  the 
officer. 

Jackdabos  found  that  he  stood  near  a  hurdle  which 


A  MATTER  OF  ANTIQUITY  191 

leaned  askew.  He  ran  obediently  to  lift  one  end  and 
set  it  right.  With  a  drumming  sound  the  dainty  hoofs 
charged  toward  him;  and  up  over  the  barrier  in  a 
greyhound  leap  flew  mare  and  rider. 

** Magnificent !*'  cried  the  Jackdaw,  forgetting  his 
private  griefs  in  the  love  of  horseflesh.  *'I  give  you 
the  prize,  monsieur ! " 

The  bay  mare  returned  frivolling  at  a  walk.  Her 
rider,  an  alert  soldier  whose  fine,  serious  countenance 
was  tinged  with  a  clear  pallor,  nodded  his  thanks  in 
passing. 

**Ah,  the  pretty  filly,''  chanted  Jackdabos,  with 
vicarious  pride.  *'You  have  there,  sir,  a  very  flip- 
pant jumper." 

The  officer  smiled  at  the  young  man's  eager  up- 
turned face.    It  was  a  face  that  knew  horses. 

''Not  bad?"  he  said.  ''Here,  hold  this  for  me, 
please." 

He  unfastened  his  black  cape,  and  whirled  it  down 
into  the  Jackdaw's  arms*.  Then  with  a  hint  of  the 
bridle-hand,  he  sent  the  bay  mare,  galloping  down  the 
course,  skylarking  over  the  bars.  When  he  returned, 
he  pulled  up  for  a  moment  to  let  Jackdabos  and  the 
mare  nozzle  each  other,  which  they  did  with  great 
interest  and  satisfaction.  The  boy  spoke  a  few  words 
to  her  in  some  crooning  dialect.  She  whinnied,  and 
laid  her  short  little  racer's  head  on  the  brown  velvet- 
eexi  shpuldejp. 


192  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

"You  have  bewitched  the  lady,*'  laughed  her  rider. 
*'She  is  no  sycophant." 

He  caught  the  youngster  watching  him  secretly 
with  an  odd,  shy  glance. 

'*But  IVe  seen  you  before,''  said  he. 

''Yes,  my  captain,"  replied  Jackdabos.  ''In  the 
army." 

"Eh?"  cried  the  horseman.  "When?  Where  was 
it?" 

He  named  an  obscure  and  far-off  battlefield. 

"Yes,  sir,"  agreed  the  Jackdaw,  and  named  two 
others,  grinning  proudly. 

The  captain  smiled,  but  with  a  trace  of  sadness  in 
his  dark  eyes,  as  though  this  young  wanderer's  face 
recalled  memories — ^many  things  lost  and  forgotten. 

"I  know  you  now,"  said  he.  "A  very  annoying 
young  devil  who  never  stayed  in  the  background." 

The  Jackdaw  modestly  touched  his  cap,  for  this  as 
it  happened  was  praise. 

' '  Eh,  well  ?    How  goes  it,  my  boy  ?  " 

The  boy  replied  that  his  affairs  went  in  excellent 
order.  But  as  he  made  this  reply,  there  came  an 
inspiration. 

"May  I  talk  with  you,  sir,"  he  begged,  "for  ten 
minutes  ? ' ' 

"Fire  away,"  said  his  captain. 

"Pardon,  sir.    Later.    First  I  must  go  and  come. 


i  MATTER  OF  ANTIQUITY  193 

There's  a  very  important  thing  I  should  like  to  show 
yon.     Highly  important/' 

'  *  Concerning  what  ? ' ' 

'  *  Concerning  France. ' ' 

The  captain  consulted  his  watch. 

**I  shall  be  exercising  horses  here/'  he  declared, 
*Hill  lunchtime.  If  you  run  both  ways,  you'll  find 
me  here." 

The  Jackdaw  thanked  him  warmly,  returned  the 
black  cape  neatly  folded,  and  set  off  across  country 
like  a  paper-chaser,  vaulting  one  of  the  hurdles  for 
pure  light-heartedness.  All  the  way  to  the  wheel- 
wright's* and  upstairs  he  ran;  then  all  the  way  back 
uphill,  with  a  heavy  green  bag  thumping  his  ribs. 
In  the  pleasant  glade  of  the  Concours  Hippique,  he 
found  bis  captain  still  riding  the  bay  mare,  though 
now  at  an  amble,  her  practice  done  for  the  day. 

They  met  in  the  centre  of  the  oval. 

"Are  your  lungs  made  of  leather?"  asked  the 
horseman,  smiling. 

**It  is  nothing,"  replied  Jackdabos,  flushed,  but 
breathing  easily.    **I  was  afraid  of  missing  you,  sir." 

As  a  peddler  opens  his  pack,  he  untied  the  bag- 
strings,  fumbled  within,  and  quickly  extracted  the 
broad  golden  plate,  dazzling  in  the  sun. 

** There,"  said  he,  handing  it  up. 

The  captain  balanced  the  glorious  object  on  his 


194  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

saddle-bow,  and  stared  like  one  amazed  by  legerde- 
main. 

''What's  all  this?'' 

Leaning  against  the  mare's  shoulder,  Jackdabos  told 
him.  He  sat  listening,  immobile,  an  equestrian 
statue ;  only  his  fine  dark  eyes  moved,  but  they  pene- 
trated the  young  man  through  and  through. 

*'It  sounds  very  droll,  but  I'm  not  lying,  sir." 

*'I  know  you're  not,  my  child.  Continue  to  avoid 
that  mistake." 

Jackdabos  continued,  with  spirit  and  humor. 

**It  is  genuine,"  he  concluded.  **A  great  English 
scholar  told  me  so.  It  is  no  counterfeit.  Benvenuto 
Cellini  made  it;  indeed,  who  else  could  dream  and 
execute  such  a  piece?  Perfect,  barring  the  salaman- 
der on  Troy  gate,  which  is  bad.    But  perfect!" 

The  captain,  his  first  moment  of  surprise  past, 
nodded  gravely,  like  a  man  who  had  seen  many  mat- 
ters far  less  credible. 

' '  Odd, ' '  he  murmured.    * '  A  very  odd  story. ' ' 

''Sir,  you  can't  imagine,"  said  Jackdabos  fer- 
vently, "how  I  have  lain  awake  nights,  puzzling.  To 
think  of  such  a  prodigy  ever  being  lost — or  ever 
found  again.  Enigma !  The  things  we  lose,  the  things 
we  keep — enigma  of  the  past!    It  crushes  me,  sir." 

His  captain  did  not  laugh  or  mock,  but  eyed  him 
curiously,  and  then  said: 

"I   know.     Charlemagne  was   a   great   emperoj;:. 


A  MATTER  OF  ANTIQUITY  195 

Somewhere  in  Paris,  the  Biblioth^que,  I  fancy,  there's 
one  poor  little  old  time-eaten  ivory  chessman  which 
belonged  to  Charlemagne/' 

He  waited,  but  not  long;  for  this  bright-eyed 
youngster  caught  the  point  almost  at  once. 

''You  think  like* me,  sir!"  exclaimed  the  Jackdaw, 
as  if  marvelously  honored.  **Yes.  If  Charlemagne 
came  back,  and  saw  his  one  chessman  standing  there, 
he  would  cry:  'What  the  Devil!  They  kept  that 
little  old  thing,  when  I  owned  such  a  lot  of  stuff,  me, 
Charlemagne?'  " 

The  two  men  smiled,  agreeing  well.  Jackdabos  pat- 
ted the  mare's  neck,  and  became  lost  in  a  day-dream, 
his  gaze  fixed  on  the  tricolor  banners  fluttering 
brightly  round  the  olive-girdled  circus. 

"You  had  some  question  to  ask?" 

"Oh,  pardon  me,  sir."  The  dreamer  woke.  "I 
forgot.  Your  time  is  not  like  mine,  worthless.  May 
I  see  our  plate  once  more?" 

The  captain  reached  it  down.  Jackdabos  took  it  in 
both  hands,  held  it  out  at  arm's  length,  and  with 
a  gleam*  of  primrose  light  quivering  over  his 
tanned  cheeks,  feU  to  such  a  study  of  the  golden 
work  as  though  he  were  storing  away  the  sight  of 
Helen,  her  brothers,  and  beleaguered  Troy  in  his  mind 
forever. 

"It  was  made  for  a  French  king."    He  thought 


196  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

aloud.  *'The  kings  are  gone,  but  there  is  always 
France/' 

He  returned  the  plate  to  his  captain. 

"You  know  the  great  and  the  powerful,  sir.  Please 
make  them  keep  this  where  we  others,  we  short-legged 
fellows,  can  see  it  now  and  then  on  a  Sunday. ' ' 

He  stepped  backward,  smartly,  two  paces  from  the 
mare^s  shoulder,  touched  his  cap,  turned,  and  walked 
off  with  a  little  contented  swagger  across  the  green 
turf.  He  had  reached  the  boundary  of  the  oval 
before  the  astonished  captain  came  riding  alongside. 

*'Here,  you  young  madman,"  fumed  the  officer, 
laughing.    * '  Here ! '  ^ 

Eespectful  but  stubborn,  the  Jackdaw  turned  his 
head  without  halting. 

*'No  use,  my  captain,"  he  retorted.  ''The  pretty 
filly  can  do  anything,  God  bless  her,  but  she  hasn't 
learned  to  climb  these  rocks  where  I'm  going. — Oh, 
and  here's  the  bag  for  it." 

Like  a  brown  velveteen  goat,  he  scrambled  up  the 
nearest  rounding  ledge,  and  stood  inaccessible  on  the 
crest,  akimbo  and  agrin,  ready  to  vanish  into  the 
olive  branches. 

''Forgive  me,  sir,"  he  called.  "I  had  no  other 
method.  My  friends  are  all  gone.  I  needed  a  man 
of  honor.    It  belongs  with  the  toy  of  Charlemagne." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

FAILURE 

Avignon,  a  year  later,  was  enjoying  the  clearest  of 
spring  days.  In  mild  April  sunlight  the  city  of  the 
Popes  lifted  her  pale  buff  towers  and  crenellated  walls 
along  the  river,  as  though  rising  to  see  how  the  pol- 
lard fruit-trees  blossomed  on  the  Island. 

Against  the  lofty  balustrade  of  the  popes'  garden  a 
large  black-bearded  man  leaned  his  elbows,  and 
watched,  far  below,  the  tawny  Rhone  swirling  past  in 
freshet.  He  wore  plain  black  clothes  and  a  generous 
black  felt  hat. 

*'I  wonder,''  said  this  man,  ''what  the  young  mon- 
key thinks  he's  doing?" 

He  meditated,  his  big  gray  eyes  fixed  on  Rhone 
stream  and  the  low  mist  of  orchard  blossoms  beyond. 
One  year  ago  he  had  lost  a  friend.  This  morning  he 
hoped  to  discover  the  friend  again,  if  it  were  possible 
after  so  much  time  and  intervening  difference. 

''Young  monkey!"  said  Blackbeard.  "Whatever 
197 


198  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

he  is  doing,  lie^s  proud  as  Lucifer  and  twice  as  inde- 
pendent." 

A  brooding  light  in  the  gray  eyes  declared  that  the 
lost  friend,  for  all  his  pride  and  silence,  was  not  a 
displeasing  object  of  thought.  Blackbeard  hummed 
an  air,  and  beat  accompanying  tattoo  on  the  balus- 
trade. Avignon  had  waked  and  breakfasted,  but  re- 
mained very  still.  The  skiff  of  the  ferryman  glid- 
ing slantwise  across  the  yellow  river  creaked  and 
rattled  its  pulley  along  the  sagging  wire  cable,  with  a 
complaint  as  of  a  melancholy  bird.  When  it  had 
landed  beneath  Blackboard's  rocky  eminence,  and  set 
ashore  its  freight  of  slow-moving  peasant  women, 
there  was  no  sound  but  Rhone's  voice.  Fierce  eddies 
boiled  and  gurgled  under  the  arches  of  the  broken 
bridge,  and  surged  about  the  last  pier  in  midstream, 
reflecting  bits  of  glassy  brightness,  whirling  like  that 
round  of  the  vanished  dancers  whose  memory  is  but 
an  old  song.  The  watcher  on  the  garden  rock  ceased 
humming,  and  listened  for  a  while. 

**I'll  go  now,"  he  thought,  rousing,  **and  catph  him 
at  work.    If  he  ts  working. " 

So  down  from  the  garden  cypresses,  under  the 
Palace  battlements,  under  the  Pope's  Mule  tower, 
downstairs,  past  valiant  Crillon's  statue,  and  into 
the  lower  streets  of  Avignon,  walked  a  lazy  giant  with 
an  air  of  preoccupied  benevolence.  He  smiled  to  him- 
self as  he  went 


FAILURE  199 

"Will  it  be  like  old  times?'*  he  wondered. 
Through  narrow  ways  and  a  crowded  market- 
place, he  came  at  last  into  the  Street  of  the  Dyers. 
Where  once  the  scarlet  cloth  of  army  trousers  used 
to  flaunt  was  now  a  sad-colored  lane  of  workshops 
overhung  with  budding  trees.  On  his  right,  in  a 
masonry  channel,  the  olive-gray  water  of  the  Sorgue 
came  suddenly  and  mysteriously  flowing  from  under 
houses,  to  turn  the  cumbrous,  clanking  undershot 
water-wheels,  their  paddles  coated  with  green  slime. 
Like  laboring  monsters,  wheel  after  wheel  revolved 
patiently,  dripping.  Across  the  street  their  motion 
was  continued,  multiplied,  accelerated  in  the  row  of 
workshops  where  through  dark  doorways  came  the 
hum  and  the  fugitive  glimmer  of  belts  and  pulleys 
rapidly  spinning. 

**He  must  be  hereabout, '*  thought  Blackbeard,  peer- 
ing through  each  door  as  he  passed.  Men  quarrelled 
somewhere,  with  loud  and  terrible  language. 

Not  far  beyond  the  mournful  chapel  of  the  Gray 
Penitents,  he  spied  a  yet  gloomier  portal,  from  which 
smoke  languidly  drifted. 

**There!''  said  the  wanderer,  quickening  his  steps. 
'* There,  of  course;  that's  the  boy's  sign!'' 

Above  the  smoking  lintel  projected  a  small  pent- 
house box,  like  a  wooden  lantern,  in  which  hung  a 
bridle  of  scarlet  leather. 

**Poor  child,  I  hope  it  brought  him  luck!" 


200  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

To  judge  by  the  senses,  it  had  not  done  so.  Here 
the  quarrel  raged.  The  shop,  blacker  than  an  oven, 
was  filled  with  stale,  acrid  foundry  smoke,  and  re- 
echoed yells  of  rage.  As  Blackbeard  gained  the  thres- 
hold, he  was  thrown  violently  backward  by  two  inter- 
locked and  reeling  figures  who  were  belched  out  as 
from  an  inferno.  In  a  zig-zag  stumble  they  crossed 
the  road,  struck  headfirst  the  wall  of  the  brook,  fell 
in  a  hissing,  cat-fighting  mass,  then  disentangled, 
bounded  up,  and  sprang  at  each  other  with  fists  and 
feet. 

They  were  short  men,  evenly  matched ;  but  the  good- 
natured  giant,  lumbering  into  the  fray,  tore  them 
apart. 

*^No,  no!''  cried  one.  ''Let  be!  This  must  come 
to  an  end." 

''Stand  clear!"  howled  the  other.  "Let  me  kill 
him!" 

"Doit!    Doit!" 

"He  stole  my  great  treasure — gave  it  away  .  .  . 
for  nothing.  Promised  to  make  my  fortune,  and  he 
can't  make  the  snout-ring  of  a  sow!" 

The  two  ruffians  bobbed  round  their  peace-maker, 
trying  frantically  to  close  again.  Pale,  sweaty,  grimed 
like  stokers,  with  blouses  tattered  and  burnt,  they 
seemed  a  pair  of  last  night's  phantoms  enacting  by 
sunshine  the  fag-end  of  a  dream. 

Along  the  Street  of  the  Dyers,  neighboring  work- 


FAILURE  201 

men  leaned  in  their  doorways  to  watch  and  disap- 
prove, or  popped  out,  shrugged  their  shoulders,  and 
popped  in  again. 

'^Letmekillhim!'' 

'*Out  o'  my  way!" 

The  giant  recognized  both  ragamuffins,  despite  their 
blackened  faces. 

*'Why,  Jacko!''  he  cried.  '^Philibert!  Stop  this 
at  once !     Calm  yourselves. '  ^ 

The  blacker  and  worse  burnt  of  the  two  flashed  on 
him  a  beseeching  look. 

**One  moment,  Barjavel,"  came  the  reply,  in  the 
Jackdaw's  voice.  *'No  time  for  you  now.  This  has 
been  coming.  He  blames  me  for  the  failure  of  my 
statue.  A  year's  work.  This  is  the  Fight.  Stand 
dear.    We  must  finish  on  the  spot. " 

So  saying,  he  dodged  under  the  giant's  arm  and 
flew  at  his  enemy  like  a  gamecock.  This  time  Bar- 
javel  contented  himself  with  seeing  fair  play.  It  was 
a  combat  great  and  grim,  fought  in  silence.  They 
hammered  each  other  with  savage  good  will,  clenched, 
toppled  exhausted,  rolled  on  the  cobblestones,  got  up, 
and  haminered  afresh.  When  they  fell  for  the  last 
time,  it  was  the  wild,  smeared  likeness  of  Jackdabos 
who  wriggled  on  top  and  sat  there. 

'*Had  enough?''  he  panted.  **0r  shall  I  drop  you 
into  the  Sorgue?" 

**Lemme  up/*  croaked  a  dismal  bass. 


202  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

The  dirty  victor  leaped  on  foot. 

*' Sorry,  old  man,''  he  muttered,  '*but  we  had  to 
maul  it  out.'' 

The  vanquished  rose  tottering,  and  wiped  a  pug 
nose  that  bled. 

''I  quit  work,''  said  Puig.  *'Hope  to  God  I  never 
see  your  face  again. ' ' 

And  he  went  limping  back  into  the  cavern  of  smoke. 

Jackdabos,  or  the  torn  and  cindery  devil  in  his 
likeness,  drew  himself  erect  and  wearily  filled  his 
chest  with  air. 

**You  are  welcome,"  he  said,  smiling.  *' Welcome, 
monsieur  le  prince " 

''Bah!"  protested  the  giant,  and  wrung  his  hand. 
' '  Call  me  the  old  name ! ' ' 

The  youngster  sighed  with  content. 

''My  dear  Barjavel,  it's  very  good  to  see  you 
again.    What  can  we  do  for  you?" 

Barjavel's  big  gray  eyes  twinkled  with  satisfac- 
tion. Here  he  had  found  the  same  old  Jackdaw,  no- 
body's darling,  no  man's  protege,  poor,  simple,  yet 
ready  to  talk  like  a  ruler  of  grand  affairs. 

''I  came  to  renew  our  friendship  a  little,"  replied 
Barjavel,  "if  you  care  to  try.  I  wanted  to  ask  you 
both  to  come  picnic  with  me  on  the  Island." 

Jackdabos  gave  a  snort  of  delight. 

"If  we  care?  What  do  you  take  us  for,  Barjy? 
Half  a  mo'." 


^ 


FAILURE  203 

He  plunged  into  the  shop,  and  disappeared  among 
greenish  clouds  of  evil-smelling  smoke.  Barjavel, 
peering  in,  could  see  only  an  obscure  wilderness  of 
tools,  boxes,  heaps  of  sand,  disorderly  work-benches, 
dominated  by  the  dome  of  a  brick  furnace  and  a  huge, 
misshapen  mass  like  a  badly  built  ant-hill  propped 
with  scaffolding.  The  place  was  a  fit  grotto  for  Mel- 
ancholia surrounded  by  her  rubbish. 

Jackdabos  ran  out,  buttoning  his  jacket, — ^the  same 
old  brown  velveteen,  threadbare  now,  though  neatly 
patched  and  brushed.  Except  that  one  eyelid  was 
turning  green  and  puffy,  he  bore  no  marks  of  con- 
flict ;  and  certainly  no  grudge,  for  his  face  was  jubil- 
ant. 

*' Ready  for  picnics, *'  he  declared.  '*We  haven't 
eaten  or  slept,  no,  not  these  forty-eight  hours.  Wow, 
Barjy,  but  we  have  worked!'' 

Blackbeard  pointed  at  the  uncouth  anthill  amid  the 
reek. 
■    **What  on  earth  is  that?" 

The  Jackdaw  flung  his  hands  apart  in  a  gesture  of 
defeat. 

*  *  That  ?  My  statue, ' '  said  he,  lightly.  * '  My  bronze 
statue  in  its  mould.  A  year's  work  for  nothing.  We 
cast  it  as  well  as  we  could.  Puigo  says  the  alloy  didn't 
fuse  properly.  All  we  could  get  for  furnace  was  a 
worn-out  second-hand  bell-founder's  dome.  Mafeesh- 
fineesh !    We  have  failed  and  are  bankrupt :  no  more 


204  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

metal,  no  more  money.    Come  on,  let  us  eat  and  pic- 
nic.   We  shall  not  make  you  sad." 

Barjavel  took  the  failure  as  a  matter  of  course. 

**YouVe  grown  thin,''  he  said.    ** Where's  Puig?" 

"Old  fool  says  he  won't  come,"  was  the  reply. 

Barjavel  turned  and  bellowed  into  the  foundry. 

**Philibert!    Attend!    We're  going  by  the  hac  to 
the  Island,  then  up  the  tow-path  to  a  good  sunny 
bank.    Follow  us  when  ready.    We'll  have  succulents 
foods  and  the  best  of  wine." 

The  grotto  of  Melancholy  returned  no  answer. 

** Leave  him  to  sulk  it  through,"  advised  the  Jack- 
daw. **I  feel  this  is  a  day  of  destiny.  If  the  lady  at 
Aries  foretold  us  the  truth,  Puig  will  be  happy  and 
content,  working  for  a  man  who  has  beaten  him  with 
hand  and  tongue.  Or  not.  Let  be.  He  must  follow, 
now  or  never." 

Barjavel  accepted  this  philosophy,  but  in  parting 
bellowed  once  more : 

*  *  Shut  up  shop  and  find  us.  L  'ile  de  la  Barthelasse ! 
Plenty  of  wine,  old  Philibert  le  Beau ! ' ' 

A  sibylline  croak  bade  them  go  to  the  devil. 

They  so  far  obeyed  as  to  leave,  and  wind  their  way 
happily  talking  through  Avignon  to  the  old  walls  and 
the  river.  There  at  the  hac  landing  below  the  Pope's 
Eock,  they  embarked  with  a  polite,  sunburnt  ferry- 
man, who  cast  loose  and  let  them  drive  aslant  the 
flood.     His  pulley-wheel  chattered  and  strained  its 


FAILURE  205 

wire  overhead;  the  clay-colored  Rhone  swept  round 
them;  while  over  the  pink-tufted  orchards  on  the 
island  which  they  drew  near,  Saint  Andrew's  fort 
and  Philip's  tower  rushed  down-stream  by  illusion 
like  castled  mountains  moving. 

When  the  boat  nosed  into  a  mud-bank,  Barjavel 
and  his  friend  climbed  out  on  the  island  shore.  By 
the  ferry  cabin  stood  a  man  in  rusty  black — a  waiter 
from  some  tavern  hidden  among  the  poplar  trees — 
who  bowed  to  Barjavel,  and  silently,  by  appoint- 
ment, handed  them  a  basket  covered  with  a  tidy  cloth. 
Jackdabos  carried  it,  as  they  set  forth  up-river  by  the 
old  tow-path,  now  an  intermittent  sandy  lane  among 
bushes,  with  clearings  and  tiny  sloughs  where  the 
crumbling  riverbank  had  melted. 

They  walked  slowly,  but  their  tongues  galloped ;  and 
as  of  yore,  the  talk  flew  roundabout  and  criss-cross, 
quartering  large  fields  of  human  life. 

**0f  course,"  Barjavel  was  saying,  "bachelors 
aren't  the  most  unhappy  in  this  world.  I  remember 
two  sentences  .  .  .*' 

Jackdabos  laughed. 

*'Ah,  that's  like  the  old  time!"  he  exclaimed. 
**How  good  it  is  to  see  and  hear  you,  my  friend! 
What  text  from  what  ancient  father  are  you  masti- 
cating now?" 

The  giant  viewed  him  slyly,  askance. 
One  is  of  Juvenal, ' '  he  replied.    '  *  It  says :  '  Noth- 


ttt 


206  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

ing  is  more  intolerable  than  a  rich  woman. '  And  for 
the  other,  how  wrote  the  son  of  Sirach?  *As  the 
going  up  a  sandy  way  is  to  the  feet  of  the  aged,  so  is 
a  wife  full  of  words  to  a  quiet  man.'  '' 

Jackdabos  chuckled. 

**You're  always  the  same,"  he  declared,  with  quiet 
affection.  ''But  there  are — cases — to  which  even  your 
collected  wisdom  cannot  apply." 

They  halted  in  a  pleasant  circular  grass-plot,  open 
to  the  river,  but  screened  elsewhere  with  young  thicket 
and  the  dry,  golden  stalks  of  last  year's  rushes.  April 
sunshine  warmed  the  new  grass,  and  being  reflected 
from  the  saffron  flood,  played  with  changeable,  oozy 
lights  among  the  green  switches  and  furry  tassels  of 
the  willows.  Jackdabos,  laying  his  basket  on  the 
bank,  sat  there  cross-legged. 

''By  the  way,"  said  his  friend  abruptly,  rolling 
down  beside  him  and  stretching  at  full  length,  "you 
remember  Miss  Moultrie?  Nice  girl,  that.  You'll  be 
glad  to  hear  she  was  well,  and  asked  about  you  in  a 
letter  to  my  sister." 

Jackdabos  fixed  his  eyes  on  Avignon,  whose  towers 
dreamed  above  the  hurrying  water. 

' '  Yes,  I  am  glad. ' '  His  lips  moved  with  difficulty ; 
the  sources  of  talk  froze  within  him ;  on  this,  the  day 
of  his  failure,  no  news  could  have  pierced  him  more 
cruelly.  "She — she  is  kind.  I  think,  perhaps — I'd 
better  lay  our  tablecloth." 


FAILURE  207 

Dragging  the  basket  toward  him,  he  unfolded  the 
white  cloth  on  the  grass,  then  busily  set  out  in  order 
the  banquet  which  Barjavel  had  provided:  a  roast 
chicken,  two  bottles  of  wine,  salad,  golden-crusted 
bread,  and  various  dainties.  He  was  aware  that  his 
host  lay  watching  him  sharply. 

**You*re  not  ruined  yet,  for  you  can  buy  more 
metal.*'  The  giant  was  reading  his  thoughts.  *'Buy 
more  metal,  and  have  another  go.  I  '11  lend  you  plenty 
for  that.'' 

Jackdabos  looked  up  smiling. 

**You  are  a  friend,"  he  answered,  in  a  glow  of 
admiration.  **You  follow  a  man  clear  into  the  little 
rooms  of  his  heart,  don't  you?  My  dear  Barjy,  I'm 
grateful,  but  .  .  .  But. ' '  He  nodded,  as  if  the  word 
were  final ;  then  with  strained,  mathematical  precision, 
arranged  three  heavy  glass  tumblers  round  the  cloth. 
*'I  can't  explain.  I  can't  borrow.  Every  tub  must 
stand  on  its  own  bottom.  Very  slow  work.  But  you 
know,  some  things,  like  djdng,  and  this — ^this  other — 
a  chap  has  to  do  all  alone  ? ' ' 

Barjavel  nodded  with  tremendous  energy,  and  sat 
upright  like  one  whose  watching  had  ceased  forever. 

*' Anyhow,  can  smoke  with  an  old  man,  can't  you?" 
he  growled,  and  tossed  over  a  box  of  sinfully  bediz- 
ened cigarettes.    * ' Humble  yourself  that  f ar ?' ' 

So,  in  their  warm  retreat  among  the  willows,  they 
lounged  together,  relishing  equally  the  savor  of  deli- 


208  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

cate  tobacco  and  the  smell  of  a  spring  bonfire  that 
drifted,  like  rank  earthy  incense,  from  where  some 
island  farmer  was  burning  brush.  They  mused,  and 
let  the  flow  of  the  river  carry  past  their  thoughts  in  a 
trance,  till  conscious  only  of  that  yellow  surface,  here 
rippling  into  a  line  of  shark-fin  waves,  there  uncoiling 
strings  of  loud  whirlpools,  or  suddenly  returning  calm 
and  smooth,  as  an  eddy  that  bore  tiny  matted  rafts 
and  jack-straw  patterns  of  broken  reeds,  mingled  with 
the  numberless  old  wine-corks  that  bob  in  the  Rhone. 

**I'm  sorry  for  Puigo,"  confessed  the  young  man, 
out  of  this  long  contemplation.  '^I  treated  him  shab- 
bily about  his  gold  platter.  He  took  all  that  like  a 
brick.  And  I  did  promise  to  make  his  fortune.  AM! 
Our  promises!'' 

A  distant,  mellow  chinxing  floated  through  sun- 
light to  their  island.  Behind  towered  hill  and  long 
ramparts,  the  Jacquemart  of  Avignon  rang  noon. 
Another  sweet  bell  answered.  When  the  music  had 
passed  overhead,  there  was  only  the  fleeting  gurgle  of 
the  whirlpools,  and  the  whisper  of  an  April  breeze 
passing  through  the  sere  lances  of  the  rushes. 

A  loud  hail,  from  down  the  island,  startled  them. 

Through  a  gap  in  the  willows,  they  caught  glimpses 
of  the  tow-path,  a  leafy  tunnel  chequered  with  pale- 
green  vernal  brightness.  Under  this  a  man  ap- 
peared, running  like  a  messenger.  He  stopped,  hailed 
once  more,  then  seemed  to  spy  the  two  holiday-mak- 


FAILURE  209 

ers ;  for  in  a  clearing  against  the  southerly  glitter  of 
the  flood,  his  black  silhouette  hopped  off  the  ground, 
cutting  a  strange  antic.  The  creature  yelled  some 
greeting,  either  of  triumph  or  derision.  Then  he  came 
jogging  on  sedately. 

'^t'sPuigo.    Good.'' 

The  sturdy  little  smith  walked  over  their  grass- 
plot  with  a  determined  air,  till  he  stood  between 
them.  All  mud  and  smut,  he  had  done  nothing  to 
remove  the  stains  of  combat  except  wash  his  face ;  one 
eye  was  nearly  lost  in  a  puffy  swelling,  and  his  nose 
gleamed  large  and  red  as  a  carrot.  In  both  arms  he 
dandled  what  might  have  been  a  small  baby  wrapped 
in  brown  paper. 

**It  breaks  every  law  of  metals!"  he  declared, 
angrily.  **That  old  she-dog  of  a  furnace,  hey,  what, 
she  did  the  trick  after  all!  I  smashed  the  mould  to 
spite  you,  Jacko, — and  ooh,  your  bronze,  your 
bronze  ..." 

The  Jackdaw  scrambled  up,  and  stood  waiting, 
deadly  pale. 

**A11  gone,"  he  stammered.  "All  wasted,  I  sup- 
pose?" 

The  smith  pitched  his  brown  paper  nursling  into 
BarjavePs  lap. 

**No-o-o!"  he  blubbered,  and  fell  on  the  Jackdaw's 
neck.     *' She's    cooling.      She's    perfect!     Perfect! 


210  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

Jacko,  we're  both — o-o-oh,  hoo,  hoo — ^we're  both  made 
men  for  life!'' 

He  hung  there  limp  in  his  partner's  arms,  crying 
like  a  naughty  child. 

**Look  at  the  model,  Barjy,"  said  Jackdabos,  over 
his  shoulder.  **  'Twill  give  you  some  idea.  You're 
the  third  person  to  see  our  model.  The  thing  itself,  of 
course,  is  made  heroic." 

He  was  too  busy  comforting  Puig,  they  were  both 
too  shaken  with  work,  hunger,  and  lack  of  sleep,  to 
watch  what  Barjavel  might  do;  but  they  heard  the 
crackle  of  stiff  paper  being  unfolded,  and  became 
aware  of  a  mighty  silence.  He  must  be  looking  at  that 
model,  in  black  wax,  which  they  already  knew  by 
heart. 

Then  suddenly  they  were  crushed  in  a  bear's  hug, 
swept  off  their  feet,  and  tossed  aloft  like  playthings. 

*  *  Oh,  my  boys ! ' '  wailed  the  good  giant.  ^  *  This  will 
live  long  after  we  are  dead  and  gone!  *Le  huste  sur- 
vit  a  la  cite!*    Oh,  my  boys!" 

Jackdabos  was  stuttering  in  the  air,  as  he  went  up 
and  down. 

''Does  it  .  .  .  does  it  b-b-beat  Cellini?" 

** Cocked  hat!"  cried  Barjavel. 

He  set  them  down,  dizzily;  ran  to  the  tablecloth, 
opened  a  bottle,  tossed  the  cork  to  join  its  fellows  in 
the  brimming  River  of  the  Bull,  and  filled  two  tum- 
blers with  pale-red  wine. 


FAILURE  211 

** Drink,''  he  commanded,  giving  one  gleiss  to  Puig, 
and  keeping  one,  * '  to  our  Master. '  * 

They  drank,  solemnly.  The  Jackdaw  hung  his  head, 
trembling  lika  a  tired  horse.  But  next  nloment  they 
had  him  at  arms'  length.  Whirling  in  a  round  upon 
the  grass.  Barjavel  was  singing  for  their  dance,  and 
the  words  of  his  song  were : 

**  *My  love,  site's  hut  a  lassie  yet, 
A  ligJitsome,  lovely  lassie  yet. 
It  scarce  would  do 
To  sit  and  woo 
Down  hy  the  stream  sae  glassy  yet.*' 

It  was  not  on  St.  Benezet's  broken  bridge,  yet  no 
livelier  dance  was  ever  footed  in  Avignon. 

"  *But  there's  a  hraw  time  comin'  yet, 
When  we  may  gang  Orvoamin'  yet, 
And  hint  wi'  glee 
0'  joys  tohe  .  ,  ,'  " 

The  singer  choked  and  failed,  the  round  ran  into 
a  tangle,  the  three  friends  stood  apart  as  it  were  ad- 
miring their  own  folly. 

"Come,"  ordered  Barjavel  at  last,  quietly.  "We 
should  eat." 

With  a  kingly  ceremony,  more  than  half -serious,  he 


212  THE  KEY  OF  THE  FIELDS 

led  the  shabby  little  brown-clad  youth  to  the  feast  by 
the  river's  brim. 

* '  Sit  down  before  us,  Jacko, ' '  said  he.    ' '  Where  the 
Master  sits,  is  the  head  of  the  table. '* 


BOLDERO 


BOLDERO 
I 

On  a  summer  afternoon  a  young  man  drove  his  ' '  de- 
livery wagon"  down,  a  street  of  modern  homes  in  the 
greatest  of  all  Western  cities.  What  city,  research 
would  fail  to  discover,  for  the  epithet  seems  common 
in  a  land  of  clashing  superlatives;  all  we  shall  ever 
know,  therefore,  is  that  the  street  was*  a  broad  gray 
blaze  of  asphalt;  the  most  argumentative  climate  in 
the  world,  a  heat  smelling  of  tarweed ;  and  the  wagon 
a  green-painted  vehicle  drawn  by  a  skinny  horse  and 
blazoned  with  the  name  of  0.  Gumbinger,  Grocer  and 
Liquor. 

The  youth  who  drove  the  skinny  horse  was  Indian 
brown,  had  large  blue  eyes,  and  sat  erect  under  a  team- 
ster's  gaudy  parasol.  He  wore  a  drab  army  sweater, 
bought  at  secondhand,  faded  trousers-,  no  hat,  and 
somebody's  cast-off  tennis  shoes.  Yet  he  was  not 
dingy.  To  look  up  at  him  while  he  rumbled  lazily 
down  the  wide  and  vacant  street,  any  foot  passenger 
would  have  marked  him  as  a  cheerful,  audacious 

215 


216  BOLDERO 

young  man,  whose  clothes  called  attention  to  his  body 
— a  lithe,  loose,  capable  body,  good  for  boxing  or  foot- 
ball.     .  ♦ 

He  took  care  of  his  horse ;  for  at  a  street-watering 
pipe  he  drew  up,  and  sluiced  the  poor  animal  with 
water  from  a  dangling  cylinder  of  canvas. 

''It's  hot,  Ribso,''  he  grumbled.  ''Don't  want  you 
to  catch  the  staggers.  'Tain't  my  fault  you  got  no 
pith  in  your  bones.  That 's  the  old  man.  He  fills  your 
manger  with  shingle  shavin's,  claps  green  spectacles 
on  you,  and  says :  '  Dear  hossy,  eat  the  fragrant  new- 
mown  hay!'  Devil  with  him,  Ribso.  Fat  sop!  He 
don't  even  pay  his  men  regular.  Come  on,  mon 
beau!" 

They  went  on  down  a  broad  street  called  El  Dorado, 
or  Argonaut,  or  Camino  Golden  Sunshine — ^the  real 
name  of  which  was  Dull.  The  houses  lining  it  all 
struggled  to  be  unlike  one  another  without  success. 
Each  was  what  the  Western  world  miscalls  a  bunga- 
low, and,  in  spite  of  architectural  agony,  could  not 
shake  off  the  fact. 

The  wagon  driver  pulled  up  before  a  stucco  and 
cross-timbered  marvel,  two  storeys  high.  As  he  leaned 
backward  to  reach  a  basket  under  the  seat,  he  found 
a  plump  little  gray-haired  man  watching  him  from 
the  pavement. 

"What?''  said  this  gray-haired  man  in  a  very  good 


BOLDERO  217 

and  humorous  voice.  **You're  a  Grocer  and  Liquor, 
are  you?'* 

The  youngster  regarded  him  coldly,  a  serious  open 
mind  looking  through  great  blue  eyes. 

**I  can  understand  your  groceing,'*  said  the 
passer-by,  **but  what  do  you  liq?*' 

He  was  a  mere  shrimp  of  an  old  gentleman,  very 
refined  and  whimsical,  who  carried  a  library  book 
under  his  arms. 

** Don't  know,'*  replied  the  driver  mildly.  **I  can 
lick  anything  in  this  street. ' ' 

As  they  two  were  the  only  visible  men  alive,  the 
little  plump  one  laughed. 

**True,''  said  he.  *'I  sha'n't  dispute  it.  What's 
your  name,  my  boy*?'* 

*'Boldero,''  replied  the  driver. 

**Eh?    No!    Say  it  again.'' 

**Jack  Boldero  is  my  name;  America  is  my  na- 
tion." 

The  old  gentleman  stared. 

''No!"  said  he.  ''Certainly  not.  Is  it,  really?" 
And  he  dropped  into  verse : 

'*  'To  make  your  candles  last  for  aye, 
Ye  maids  and  wives  give  ear-oJi, 
To  put  tJiem  out's  tJie  only  way,' 
QuotTi  honest  John  Boldero." 


218  BOLDEEO 

The  youth  listened  politely. 

*  *  I  do  love  my  Mother  Goose, '  *  he  commented.  * '  Al- 
ways made  me  quit  crying.  Haven't  got  a  rattle  or 
a  sugar  teat  in  your  pocket,  have  you?  My  name's 
far  from  Gumbinger,  anyhow.'' 

The  other  chuckled,  and  for  a  moment  stood  lost  in 
contemplation;  then,  waving  his  book  toward  poor 
Ribso  the  Beau : 

"Are  you,"  he  inquired,  ''a  veterinary  dietitian?" 

*'N.o,"  came  the  prompt  reply.  **It's  a  case  of 
malnutriment.  All  his  calories  just  go  to  fodder  up 
his  osteoblasts;  so  it  ain't  no  use  feeding  that  horse. 
He's  an  osteoblastopath. " 

** Heavens!"  cried  the  little  old  gentleman  in  de- 
light.   ''Where  do  you  find  such  words?" 

''Public  library  is  free  to  all,"  declared  Eibso's 
driver,  "unless  you're  on  your  way  to  close  her 
against  us  now." 

' '  So  young ;  yet  so  saucy ! ' '  murmured  his  examiner, 
feigning  grief.  "My  boy,  I  fear  you're  the  kind  that 
rises  too  early  in  the  morning." 

Boldero  had  found  his  basket  and  was  busy  telling 
its  contents. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  the  milkman,"  he  grunted,  "nor  yet 
the  milkman's  son.  Artichokes  and  a  dozen  of  eggs. 
Pardon  me.  Senator,  but  I  have  an  appointment,  and 
the  audience  is  at  an  end." 

So  saying  he  hooked  the  basket  over  his  arm,  stepped 


BOLDERO  219 

on  the  wheel,  leaped  down,  and  made  off,  whistling. 
The  old  man,  hugging  the  library  book,  watched  him 
as  he  mounted  a  flight  of  concrete  stairs  and  followed 
the  tradesmen's  path  to  the  rear  of  the  stucco-and- 
timber  house. 

*  *  This  new  generation  is  extraordinary, '  *  sighed  the 
little  gentleman;  then  shook  his  head  doubtfully  at 
the  osteoblastic  horse  and  passed  on. 

Boldero,  skirting  a  parched  lawn  impaled  with 
palms  like  feather  dusters,  had  already  forgotten  their 
conversation.  He  was  thinking  how  hot  the  day  was 
and  how  dull  his  present  life,  in  which  nothing  ever 
happened.  He  had  spoken  one  truth  among  the 
late  nonsense.  The  Mother  Goose  name  was  hon- 
estly his  own ;  for  he  descended  from  those  strangely 
named  pioneers — Sharpnecks,  Leatherheads,  Love- 
locks, and  Muchmores — ^who  have  wandered  the  West- 
em  continent  so  far  and  so  obscurely,  leaving  less 
written  history  than  Henry  Pimpernell  or  Peter 
Turph  or  old  John  Naps  of  Greece,  or  **  twenty  more 
such  names  and  men  as  these.  Which  never  were,  nor 
no  man  ever  saw."  He,  too,  was  a  wanderer,  and 
though  young,  had  taken  more  than  his  share  in  ac- 
tive matters.  This  running  with  parcels  to  back  doors 
— an  interlude  necessary  for  the  sake  of  money — ^be- 
gan to  pall  on  him.  Nothing  ever  happened  in  such 
a  trade. 

*' About  time  to  get  fired,"  he  thought  as  he  climbed 


220  BOLDERO 

the  back  stairway.  **  Artichokes  and  a  dozen  of  eggs. 
That  don't  give  bottom  to  the  soul.  A  man  needs 
more  thrillin*  events,  kind  of.'* 

He  rapped  at  the  kitchen  door,  and  something  like 
an  event  began  to  ta,ke  place;  not  immediately.  His 
knuckles  beat  a  loud  tattoo  that  echoed  as  through 
an  empty  interior  and  failed  to  summon  anyone. 
Boldero  poised  his  basket  and  waited.  The  back  stairs, 
a  brown-painted  Jacob's  Ladder  much  more  humble 
and  rickety  than  anything  in  front,  went  zigzagging 
upward  to  the  second  storey.  No  one  appeared,  above 
or  below;  but  somewhere  within  doors  a  light  shuffle 
of  footsteps  crossed  a  floor  and  ceased. 

Jack  rapped  again,  louder,  and  gave  his  profes- 
sional whistle,  a  piercing  version  of  the  cockney  slo- 
gan: *'  'Alf  a  pint  of  mild  and  bitter!" 

It  roused  only  echoes  once  more.  He  was  about  to 
empty  his  basket  and  leave,  when  a  voice,  floating  like 
a  ventriloquist's  from  no  point  especially,  called  out: 

** Bring  it  upstairs,  here.    "Walk  right  in." 

He  could  have  aworn  that  neither  voice  nor  foot- 
steps came  from  overhead;  but  the  words  being  clear 
enough,  he  went  up,  carrying  his  basket.  It  was  an 
untidy  staircase,  marked  with  grease;  the  dark  side 
of  the  moon  as  compared  with  that  effulgent  face  look- 
ing upon  the  street.  A  sack  of  coal  lay  slumped  in  a 
comer,  petroleum  tins  waited  on  the  next  turn,  and 


BOLDERO  221 

the  nasty  gray  head  of  a  mop  leaned  ont  to  sun  itself 
from  the  upper  landing. 

'* Double  house  after  all/'  said  Boldero,  **and  kept 
awful  sluttish.'* 

He  tapped  on  the  door  at  the  upper  landing,  obeyed 
orders,  walked  in,  and  left  his  artichokes  with  the  car- 
ton of  eggs  upon  a  kitchen  table.  The  smudged  copy 
of  his  master's  bill  he  laid  beside  them.  As  he  did  so 
another  door  opened,  and  a  plump  young  wench  in 
splendid  garments  burst  upon  his  view.  She  had  the 
face  of  a  late  Roman  empress,  and  wore  tall  sky-blue 
boots. 

' '  Well ! ' '  complained  this  lady.  ' '  Wha'  d 'you  want, 
walking  into  people's  houses?" 

*  *  Delivery,  ma  'am.    You  told  me  to  come  right  in. ' ' 

*  *  Me  ?  I  never  seen  you  before ! ' '  said  the  empress. 
*'You  can  leave  it.  But  you'd  ought  to  have  more 
manners." 

She  disappeared — ^with  a  bang  and  an  odor  of  per- 
fume, as  spirits  are  said  to  do — while  Boldero  was 
replying:  *'Yes'm." 

More  manners  were  what  everybody  ought  to  have, 
he  considered  as  he  went  down  to  the  tradesmen's 
path.  Women  didn't  have  them  all,  either.  No- 
sure!  Why,  she  was  nothing  but  clothes  to  attract 
the  eye  of  man,  all  sort  of  gaudy  and  rude,  if  you 
came  to  that.  Yet  she  was  right.  He  ought  to  have 
more.    Just  now  he  had  answered  a  good  deal  too 


222  BOLDERO 

smart  and  flip,  and  maybe  offhand,  when  that  little 
fellow  with  the  public-library  book  stood  asking'  him 
questions  that,  anyhow,  were  pretty  civil. 

*' There ^8  something  in  being  a  lady,''  thought 
Boldero.  **And  a  man  don't  need  to  show  off  all  he 
can  think  of  to  say,  neither." 

He  drove  down  the  empty  street,  consulting  his  list, 
and  meditating  humbly  enough  how  much  there  was 
about  this  world  to  be  learned  just  in  the  way  of  be- 
havior. 

''An  awful  lot!"  he  sighed. 

It  occurred  to  him  that  the  voice  which  had  bidden 
him  go  upstairs  was  not  the  empress's  rather  brazen 
music,  but  an  easy,  quiet  voice — a  man's.  He  did  not 
puzzle  over  it;  the  thing  seemed  immaterial.  As 
afternoon  wore  on,  and  he  talked  with  other  strange 
women  in  other  strange  and  soiled  back  doorways, 
he  found  many  such  queer  fragments  of  life  occupy- 
ing his  mind. 

After  sunset,  having  tossed  his  final  basket  into  the 
wagon,  Boldero  reined  the  lean  horse  homeward.  They 
went  ambling  along  the  shadowy  border  of  a  small 
park  where  more  feather-duster  palms,  driven  home 
to  the  head,  with  a  few  exceedingly  young  maples  and 
peppers,  were  clustered  thickly  on  a  lawn  blighted 
with  dying  grass.  Here,  of  a  sudden,  two  men  dodged 
out,  spread  their  arms  abroad,  and  caught  Ribso  by 
his  bridle. 


BOLDERO  223 

*  *  Brown  sweater  and  white  shoes ! '  ^  said  one  of  these 
highwaymen. 

"You'll  do/'  growled  the  other. 

And,  before  Boldero  recovered  from  his  amazement, 
both  men  hopped  over  the  wheels,  landed  upon  the 
seat  of  the  wagon,  and  pinned  him  there  tightly. 
They  were  both  heavy,  red-featured  men,  both  sweat- 
ing as  to  body,  but  preternaturally  cool  as  to  manner 
and  speech. 

' '  What ' '  began  Jack. 

"Oh,  drive  along!"  replied  the  first  gayly.  "Next 
turn  to  your  left.    The  station's  round  the  corner." 

Boldero  stared  at  them.  They  grinned  like  old 
friends.  Their  clothes  were  nondescript,  but  by  a 
certain  hard  lack  of  speculation  in  their  eyes  he  knew 
them  for  police.  They  did  not  lay  hands  on  him; 
there  was  no  need ;  they  merely  sat  close  and  wedged 
the  captive  in. 

"Look  here,"  cried  Boldero  indignantly;  **I 
haven't  done  a  thing!" 

The  gruff  one  of  the  two  hauled  out  a  plug  of  to- 
bacco and  bit  it  comerwise. 

"Pleasure  along  with  business,"  he  mumbled. 
"That's  all  you  was  doing.  Artichokes  above,  and 
down  on  the  ground  floor  a  little  odd  silver  and  clothes 
and  jewlry,  and  so  forth." 

One  disadvantage  that  honest  John  Boldero  in- 
t   herited  from  his  rude  forefathers  was  too  quick  a  per- 


224  BOLDERO 

ception  of  the  truth,  combined  with  inability  to  keep 
the  truth  hidden.  A  great  light  pervaded  his  mind. 
The  man's  voice  hailing  him  so  gently  in  the  House 
of  the  Empress  had  been  the  voice  of  a  man  not 
wishing  to  be  disturbed,  and  for  good  reason.  Some- 
body ransacking  the  lower  storey  of  that  house  had 
calmly  told  him  to  go  upstairs. 

*  *  My  golly ! "  he  exclaimed.  * '  But  that  was  clever ! 
Boys,  I  never  could  have  thought  to  do  it '' 

His  florid  and  sweaty  companions  nodded  from  right 
and  left  like  a  pair  of  cynical  twins. 

''Drive  along!''  they  said.  ''You  11  get  plenty  of 
chance  to  explain.    The  lady  seen  you." 

Another  failing  must  be  imputed  to  John's  family. 
He  had,  when  disbelieved,  a  very  hot  temper.  Now 
he  called  aloud  upon  some  of  the  deities  of  mankind. 

"You  don't  jug  me  for  that!" 

The  seat  of  the  wagon  was  a  plain  board  with  no 
rail  behind.  Therefore,  when  he  rose  up  with  a  shout, 
and  swept  both  arms  in  a  backward  blow,  nothing 
prevented  the  two  cynics  from  falling  among  empty 
baskets  and  bottle  cases.  They  went  over  like  men 
on  hinges.  As  for  Boldero,  he  leaped  out  upon  the 
horse's  hollow  rump,  thence  to  the  pavement,  thence 
under  the  curving  palm-tree  spines  and  across  the 
lawn  of  the  park.  One  gift  his  unhistoric  tribe  had 
begotten  in  his  limbs — ^the  gift  of  running  faster  and 
farther  than  Harold  Harefoot,  or  a  Zulu,  or  Tom 


BOLDERO  225 

Longboat  at  his  best.  Under  the  young  trees  he  flew 
from  patch  to  patch  of  withered  grass,  round  a 
muddy  pond  from  the  surface  of  which,  as  he  passed, 
two  white  lines  of  froth  sprang  upward  and  spattered 
fanwise.  A  double  report,  the  crack  of  firearms, 
mingled  with  this  phenomenon. 

*'Shootin'  at  me!''  thought  Boldero.  ''They're  a 
nice  pair ! ' ' 

He  ran  all  the  better,  and  was  able  now  to  collect 
his  wits  as  he  ran.  No  sooner  had  he  reached  the 
dangling  palms  at  the  far  side  of  the  park  and  ducked 
beneath  their  branches,  than  he  became  another  per- 
son— cool,  dignified,  without  a  trace  of  hurry  in  his 
deportment.  Along  this  new  street  men  and  women 
were  going  decently  home,  while  children  flew  back 
and  forth  on  roller  skates,  rattling  over  the  asphalt. 
Here  and  there  a  man  stood  at  gaze,  hearkening  doubt- 
fully after  the  sound  of  pistol  fire  behind  the  trees. 
But  no  man,  woman  or  child  so  much  as  glanced  at 
Boldero,  who,  with  a  loose- jointed  gait,  like  the  tired 
workman  he  was,  deliberately  crossed  the  street  and 
turned  a  comer.  There,  finding  the  coast  clear,  he 
flew  again;  then  lounged  into  another  street  and 
walked  soberly  among  the  people  he  met  till  he  came 
to  a  shop  bearing  the  sign,  "Victor  le  Retit,  French 
Bakery." 

Boldero  opened  the  door  and  entered.  It  was  his 
home.    He  slept  in  the  basement  there,  with  all  his 


226  BOLDERO 

worldly  goods.  The  little  shop  exhaled  a  heavenly 
smell  of  good  fresh  bread,  for  M.  le  Retit  was  just 
placing  a  trayful  of  loaves  on  the  counter. 

* '  Ah,  Jack, ' '  said  he.    *  *  You  are  airly  to-night.  * ' 

He  was  a  round  short  man,  with  flaming  cheeks  and 
very  sensible  black  eyes. 

'*  Yes,  Vie,''  replied  the  fugitive.  '*I'm  early.  Po- 
lice after  me.'' 

The  baker  looked,  and  saw  it  was  spoken  in  earnest. 

''Police?  After  you?  Then  they  will  not  catch 
you.    In  this  town  they  have  no  abi-litty. ' ' 

So  saying,  he  waddled  from  behind  the  counter, 
locked  the  door,  and  carefully  hauled  down  the  win- 
dow curtains. 

"We  are  closed,"  announced  Victor  le  Retit. 
' '  Come  now ;  tell  me.    I  am  sorry. ' ' 

Boldero's  blue  eyes  were  very  friendly. 

' '  I  knew  you  'd  take  it  that  way.  You  're  a  brick ! ' ' 
he  said.    ' '  But  the  trouble  is,  I  never  did  it. ' ' 

He  told  in  few  words  exactly  what  had  happened. 

*'0h,  but,"  exclaimed  the  baker,  "if  you  are  the 
wrong  man  then  the  police  are  sairtain  to  catch  you." 

This  opinion,  placidly  delivered,  was  quite  serious. 
Boldero  nodded. 

"I  lost  'em  by  the  wayside;  but,  then,  they've  still 
got  the  horse  and  wagon,"  he  resumed.  "My  boss 
will  tell  them  I  live  with  you.  'Tain 't  far.  They  '11  be 
here  soon." 


BOLDERO  227 

Le  Retit  thrust  back  his  white  cap  till  it  formed  a 
halo  round  his  flaming  countenance. 

"I  will  bail  you,"  offered  this  cheerful  saint. 

His  lodger  grinned  at  him. 

**No.  The  case  looks  too  bad.  That's  enough.  It's 
all  they  want,  and  they'll  never  catch  the  real  man. 
He's  too  clever.  I  saw  the  whole  thing  before  startin' 
to  run.    Thank  you  all  the  same,  Vic. " 

For  a  moment  they  stared  reflectively  at  each  other. 
As  they  remained  thus,  footsteps  approached  without ; 
somebody  tried  the  latch  and  shook  the  baker's  door. 
They  stood  rigid,  motionless,  listening  in  the  darkened 
shop.  Behind  the  glass  and  the  curtains  a  voice 
grumbled ;  then  the  footsteps  went  away. 

'*I'm  off,"  said  Boldero  promptly.  *' Can't  have 
you  losing  customers  like  that.  Half  a  3  if,  until  I  get 
my  duffle  ready." 

He  dove  behind  the  counter,  through  the  hot  baking 
room  behind,  and  down  a  steep  little  flight  of  dun- 
geon'stairs  to  the  basement.  His  friend  Victor  fol- 
lowed closely,  whispering  to  him  to  stay,  to  wait,  not 
to  be  rash.  So  they  reached  Boldero 's  bedroom,  a  cell 
below  the  street,  all  dark  but  for  two  square  portholes 
glinmiering  overhead  at  the  level  of  the  back  yard. 

Boldero  lighted  a  candle  on  the  floor  and  fell  at 
once  to  work  with  brown  paper  and  twine,  making  a 
bundle  of  his  only  good  clothes.  His  long-legged 
shadow,  Victor's  broad  and  dumpy  one,  fluttered 


228  BOLDEKO 

back  and  forth  on  the  bare  white  walls  and  ceiling.  A 
cot  bed  neatly  made,  a  battered  alarm  clock  on  a  chair, 
and  a  very  old  set  of  bagpipes  leaning  in  a  corner  were 
all  the  furnishings  of  the  room,  and  all  Jack's  earthly 
possessions. 

'* There's  the  lot,''  said  he,  tying  his  bundle  of 
clothes.  ' '  Oh,  look!  An  old  lady  paid  me  her  bill  this 
afternoon."  He  emptied  from  his  pocket,  upon  the 
bed,  a  handful  of  silver  coins.  '*Will  you  send  it  to 
my  lovely  Gumbinger?  He  owes  me  more  than  that, 
but  I'm  no  thief;  it  appears  I'm  only  a  burglar." 

The  baker  looked  very  doubtful. 

**What  will  you  do.  Jack,  for  money,  yourself?" 

The  fugitive  grinned. 

''Who,  me?    I'm  rich." 

He  slapped  his  other  pocket,  in  which  something 
jingled. 

*  *  It  will  not  last  you  long, ' '  sighed  his  friend.  * '  To 
begin  the  world  with " 

'*I  began  the  world  with  less,"  replied  Jack,  ** along 
about  the  age  of  one  day  old. ' ' 

From  overhead  suddenly  resounded  a  thundering 
knock  at  the  street  door. 

'*Eh?    yoi7d/"  whispered  le  Retit. 

''Time's  up!" 

Boldero  carried  the  chair  swiftly  toward  the  wall, 
set  it  under  one  of  the  basement  windows,  tossed  his 
bundle  upward  and  outward  into  the  night;  then,  with 


BOLDERO  229 

a  catlike  spring  and  wriggle,  he  was  gone.  No  sooner 
had  his  feet  disappeared,  however,  than  his  brown  face 
shone  in  the  window. 

**I  forgot.''  He  looked  down,  very  serious. 
'  *  How 's  my  little  Jeanne  to-day  ? ' ' 

The  baker's  upturned  eyes,  black  and  sparkling, 
grew  softer,  younger. 

'  *  Doing  well,  poor  child ! "  he  whispered.  ' '  But  she 
will  stay  in  the  hospital  many  days  yet.  It  is  lonely 
for  her  that  I  am  a  widower,  me,  and  have  to 
work " 

Boldero  's  face  vanished.  His  feet  and  legs  remained 
visible  for  a  moment  in  the  candlelight.  Then  his 
clenched  fist  came  reaching  down  into  the  room.  All 
this  time  the  knocking  at  the  shop  door  grew  more  and 
more  violent. 

**Here,  shake!"  said  Boldero 's  voice.  *'Good-by, 
old  one!" 

As  the  baker  reached  up  to  seize  the  fist  it  opened, 
and  a  shower  of  coins,  falling  over  him,  spilled  and 
ran  wheeling  about  the  bedroom  floor. 

*'Buy  her  some  toys  and  flowers,  with  frere  Jean's 
love." 

**My  boy!  My  boy!"  hissed  Victor,  amazed  and 
protesting.  **It's  your  all — your  whole — ^your  last 
sou.  And  you  have  left  even  your  comemuse.  What 
shall  you  get  on  with?    How  to  proceed?" 


230  BOLDERO 

Boldero's  blue  eyes  laughed  down  at  him  in  a  flash 
of  good  humor. 

"Proceed?  I  know  a  magic  charm  for  that.  Here 
she  goes.  Look  sharp:  Ek  dum.  Rubber dar.  One, 
two,  three!    'Feet,  carry  me  away  from  here!' '' 

The  charm  worked;  with  a  twinkle  of  canvas 
pumps,  the  feet  obeyed  as  though  shod  in  seven-league 
boots.  Victor,  hopping  on  the  chair,  saw  in  the  outer 
darkness  over  the  black  wall  of  a  high  board  fence  a 
flying  shadow  vault  against  the  early  starlight  and 
drop  silently  into  the  void. 


II 


Some  months  later  a  young  man  lay  resting  beside 
what  minor  poets  call  the  great  highway,  the  open 
road,  the  long  trail,  or  God's  green  caravansary,  in 
the  Kingdom  of  Vagabondia.  Put  thus,  the  fact  has 
a  pretty  and  romantic  air ;  but  in  plain  language,  the 
young  man,  very  wretched  and  cold  and  hungry,  was 
lying  in  a  patch  of  sand  and  dead  weeds  under  a  levee 
or  dike.  His  belly  was  empty,  his  clothing  wet,  his 
mind  as  dark  as  the  landscape  before  him.  A  broken 
grove  of  young  marsh  poplars,  gray-green  and  sickly, 
straggled  along  the  levee  bank  to  right  and  left.  A 
pale  river,  like  coffee  mixed  with  too  much  cream, 
swirled  angrily  past  this  grove,  and  in  a  froth  of 
twigs  and  bubbles  and  floating  grass  blades  lapped 
round  the  lower  sapling  trunks.  Beyond  the  river 
stretched  another  level  dike  overtopped  by  low  cot- 
tonwoods :  a  wet  landscape,  cold,  gloomy.  Above  the 
musty  Cottonwood  foliage  a  strip  of  pale  sunset  glow- 
ered far  away. 

**This  is  what  they  call  being  your  own  master,'* 
231 


232  BOLDERO 

thought  the  young  man  lying  in  the  weeds.  ''Can't 
Bay  much  for  if 

He  shivered,  and  looked  with  disgust  at  his  clothes, 
which  hung  on  him  wet  and  wrinkled. 

'*No;  not  much  fun.''  And  he  hugged  himself  in 
a  vain  effort  to  be  warm.  ''This  is  the  way  you  catch 
fever  and  things. ' ' 

Boldero  's  luck  had  failed  him  all  winter.  Tramping 
many  miles  through  town  and  country,  he  had  found 
little  work  and  no  fortune.  It  was  a  bad  winter,  and 
now  the  spring  promised  poorly.  Behind  this  levee 
which  gave  him  a  moment's  shelter  from  the  wind,  lay 
a  town  full  of  men  as  able-bodied  as  he,  dozens  of  the 
needy,  scores  of  the  lazy,  hundreds  of  the  worthless 
who  only  serve  to  keep  their  betters  from  working. 

"I  don't  seem  to  have  any  luck  nowadays,"  he  re- 
flected.   "And  my  shoes  gone  to  pot,  too." 

The  soles  of  his  boots,  in  fact,  were  parting  from  the 
uppers.  The  broken  stitches  were  beaded  with  mud. 
He  was  bending  over  to  examine  them  helplessly  when 
he  heard  voices  talking  near  by. 

"I  don't  want  to  play  checkers  with  my  nose  no 
more,"  growled  one. 

"No  chanst;  no  chanst,"  said  the  other  softly.  It 
was  a  hateful,  false,  persuasive  voice.  ' '  Go  git  a  poke 
in  the  ear,  if  you  can 't  hear  what  I  'm  telling  you.  It 's 
only  old  Door-nail  Jimmy.  Who  cares  whether  he's 
here  or  there,  alive  or — ^missin'?" 


BOLDERO  233 

Boldero  quietly  rolled  over  in  the  tall  weeds,  craned 
his  neck,  and  peered  in  the  direction  of  the  voices. 

Behind  a  poplar  screen  two  men  lay  side  by  side  on 
the  bank  of  the  levee.  An  evil,  white-faced  pair,  they 
eyed  each  other  with  the  distrust  of  men  who  believe 
nobody  and  nothing.  The  watery  sunset  lighted  them 
as  they  argued  there  by  the  river. 

**No  gunfirinV'  declared  he  who  had  spoken  first. 
'*Le^s  git  down  behind  and  lay  him  one  acrost  the 
peak.  No  gun,  Fingers!  I  ain't  goin'  to  play  check- 
ers with  my  nose  for  him.*' 

The  softer  voice  poured  out  a  stream  of  meaningless 
filth. 

*  *  Look-a-here,  Pill-Hop ! ' '  it  said.  '  *  You  no  need  to 
carry  jail  inside  your  head  like  that.  All  you  do  is 
sit  up  on  this  levee  and  watch  both  ways.  1 11  act  it 
out ;  me,  I'm  the  boy !  If  you  see  anyone  comin',  you 
whistle.  There's  the  old  fool  started  his  fire  burnin' 
right  down  among  them  saplings.''  The  speaker 
pointed  toward  Boldero,  who  had  barely  time  to  dodge 
and  lie  flat  under  his  weeds.  **He's  a  totterin'  old 
man,  weaker 'n  a  cat,  likely  drunk  by  now  and  deaf 
as  a  post.  That's  why  they  call  him  the  Door-nail. 
He  carries  it  round  with  him  all  the  time.  What  bet- 
ter do  you  want,  brother?" 

The  brother  made  reply  in  which  nothing  was  audi- 
ble except: 

'*!  want  a  smoke,  first." 


234  BOLDERO 

'^AU  right;  roll  one/'  replied  the  persuasive  voice. 
''Go  ahead.  Roll  two  while  youVe  about  it,  so's  I'll 
drag  at  a  cigarette  with  you,  brother.  But  soon  as 
we  quit  smokin'  down  I  go  and  git  the  Doornail.  I 
git  him,  un 'stand?  Dead  as  a  Doornail,  hey?  Un'- 
stand?  That's  a  lucky  sayin',  too.  Roll  'em.  Your 
hand  shakes  like  an  old  maid  knittin'.  Here,  gimme 
your  bag  and  papers,  Pill-Hop." 

Boldero  looked  cautiously  through  his  weeds,  a 
mass  of  cockleburs  and  greasewood,  withered  brown. 
Beyond  their  trembling  tops  he  saw  again  the  two 
ruffians,  lolling  on  the  bank.  The  more  resolute,  who 
had  last  spoken,  sat  up  and  rolled  cigarettes  very 
knowingly.  He  was  a  long,  lean  fellow,  with  a  great 
chucklenose. 

' '  Can 't  afford  to  lose  time, ' '  thought  Boldero.  * '  Do 
a  duck  out  of  here.  I  don't  want  to  mix  round  in 
any  murders." 

He  began  sliding  backward,  feet  first,  down  through 
the  weeds  that  covered  the  levee  slope.  He  went  as 
quietly  as  a  cat  hunting  birds.  But,  when  he  had 
reached  a  thicket  of  young  poplars  and  could  stand 
erect  behind  them,  Boldero  felt  a  sudden  compunc- 
tion. He  was  alone,  weaponless,  half  giddy  with  hun- 
ger, so  tired  and  damp  and  cold  that  his  courage  had 
run  low.  A  fiend  tempted  him — the  fiend  that  dances 
in  an  empty  belly.  His  safest  course  was  to  steal 
away.   Roundabout,  overhead,  the  dark  evening  clouds 


BOLDERO  235 

hung  funereal,  and  seemed  to  warn  him  that  he  was 
jilone  in  a  land  of  murder.  Nevertheless,  he  paused. 
Something  else,  not  a  fiend,  warned  him  that  if  he 
tried  to  evade  this  moment  he  should  be  an  unlucky 
man  forever. 

**What  can  I  do  barehanded  against  a  gunf 
he  pleaded  with  himself.  The  answer  came  promptly : 
''You  can't  let  *em  kill  an  old  man.'* 

This  must  have  been  his  duty;  it  wore  an  aspect 
BO  glum  and  hard. 

*  *  Oh,  damn  it ! ' '  he  sighed,  and  looked  rapidly  about 
him. 

A  few  paces  below,  in  a  small  clearing,  a  handful 
of  fire  burned  on  the  wet  sand  at  the  river's  edge. 
Beside  this  fire  sat  the  dejected  shadow  of  a  man,  with 
his  back  turned,  warming  his  hands.  The  man,  the 
curl  of  smoke,  the  intervening  shadows — all  stood  out 
clear  and  black  against  the  gloomy  sunset. 

Boldero  raced  down  the  levee  slope  and  halted, 
facing  the  man. 

The  fire,  though  humble,  cast  a  warm  red  glow  on 
him  who  watched  it.  He  looked  up,  a  hawk-nosed, 
beardless,  brown-faced  little  old  man,  with  skeptical 
eyes. 

** Can't  hear  a  word  you're  saying,''  declared  this 
figure  in  a  toneless  voice.  * 'You'll  have  to  speak 
louder.    I 'm  deaf  as  a  doornail. " 


236  BOLDERO 

Uttering  the  words  like  an  old  and  tiresome  for- 
mula, he  continued  to  warm  his  hands. 

Boldero  laid  finger  on  lips.  He  was  forced  to 
think  very  quickly;  no  one  could  help  him.  A  sheet 
of  wrapping  paper,  stained  with  mud,  lay  near  the 
fire.  This  he  took  and  with  a  half -burned  twig  printed 
upon  it  in  charcoal  letters : 


*'a  couple  of  crumbs  want  to  kill  you. 

SIT  QUIET.    I  won't  LET  THEM.     SIT  STILL." 


The  skeptical  eyes,  rimmed  with  heavy  lids,  stared 
at  this  legend  for  what  seemed  an  age.  They  had 
plenty  of  intelligence  after  their  kind.  The  sitter 
nodded. 

** Threatened  men  live  long,''  he  said  in  his  strange, 
flat  voice;  then,  grasping  his  chin  with  both  hands, 
he  contemplated  the  fire. 

Boldero  glanced  hither  and  yon  for  a  weapon.  Not 
even  a  good  stick  offered;  nothing  but  sand,  a  fagot 
of  twigs,  one  large  imbedded  rock  too  heavy  to  be  of 
use,  a  few  rusty  cans,  two  or  three  bottles,  and  half 
an  old  shirt.  The  outlook  seemed  desperate.  But 
then,  so  was  Jack. 

There  being  no  time  for  niceties,  he  fell  back  upon 
an  ancient  and  dishonorable  method.  Seizing  the 
largest  of  the  black  bottles,  he  knocked  the  **kick" 
off  it  upon  the  rock,  then  passed  the  shirt  rag  through 


BOLDERO  237 

it  and  took  a  half  hitch  of  filthy  cloth  round  his  wrist. 
This  done,  his  mind  became  clear  and  ready.  He 
tossed  the  charcoal  warning  on  the  fire,  stole  back  into 
his  thicket,  and  crouched  there,  waiting.  All  this  time 
the  deaf  man  remained  still  as  Saturn's  image,  look- 
ing down  into  the  flames. 

Hardly  had  the  paper  caught,  flared  briefly,  and 
died  in  fluttering  ashes,  than  a  footstep  came  down  the 
levee.  Boldero  saw  passing  within  touch  of  his  bush 
the  pale  face  of  the  big-nosed  man.  A  cruel  coward's 
face,  it  was  wrinkled  in  a  conceited  smile.  The  fellow 
hummed  a  tune  as  he  went,  and  twirled  on  his  fore- 
finger a  bright  nickel-plated  revolver.  It  was  his  left 
hand  he  meant  to  use:  his  right  seemed  lacking  or 
mutilated. 

Boldero  slid  out  from  the  poplar  leaves.  Under- 
foot the  sand  made  all  still.  Four  paces  brought  him 
within  reach  of  the  murderer's  slouching  back.  He 
saw  it  straighten  and  grow  rigid.  He  saw  the  deadly 
toy  cease  twirling  and  fly  to  position,  ready.  Even 
then,  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  strike,  for  he  had 
never  hit  a  man  from  behind. 

''Look  out!"  he  shrilled,  his  voice  dry  in  his 
throat. 

The  enemy  bounded  and  wheeled  in  his  tracks.  His 
left  hand  flew  upward,  emitting  a  flash  and  a  roar. 
He  was  lightning  quick.    Boldero,  not  at  all  slow, 


238  BOLDERO 

with  a  good  conscience  and  a  free,  loose-bodied  swing, 
gave  Mm  the  bottle  over  his  ear. 

He  pitched  into  the  sand,  tumbled  from  side  to  side 
for  a  moment,  then  lay  collapsed — a  bundle  of  long 
arms  and  legs;  a  scarecrow  with  a  red  mask  for  a 
face. 

Boldero  tossed  away  flinders  of  broken  glass,  untied 
the  rag  from  his  wrist,  stepped  over  his  adversary, 
picked  up  the  fallen  pistol,  and  aiming  toward  his 
recent  refuge,  fired  twice.  Immediately  a  dark  figure 
bounded  from  the  weeds  and  went  flying  over  the 
levee,  performing  antics  of  terror,  like  a  clown. 
Brother  Pill-Hop  did  not  wait. 

Boldero  turned.  The  old  man  by  the  fire  had  not 
risen,  but  sat  there  on  a  charred  stump  of  railway 
tie  and  regarded  the  outcome  wearily  over  his  shoul- 
der. 

**You're  a  bloodthirsty  young  wildcat!"  was  all  he 
murmured.    '*Is  that  carcass  dead?" 

With  his  toneless  voice,  he  seemed  to  put  the  ques- 
tion to  empty  air.  Boldero  looked  down.  The  car- 
cass lay  breathing. 

"No!"  He  came  and  stood  over  Doornail  Jimmy. 
*  *  Not  yet ! "  he  shouted.  *  *  You  needn  't  call  me  names, 
either.    I  didn't  do  it  for  fun." 

With  some  bewildered  purpose  of  warming  himself, 
he  sat  down  by  the  fire.  To  his  further  bewilderment 
he  found  Ms  whole  body  trembling,  and  began  to 


BOLDERO  239 

cry  like  an  infant,  with  strange,  long-drawn,  blubber- 
ing noises,  which  he  had  no  power  to  check. 

**It  wasn't  any  quarrel  o'  mine!''  he  wailed. 

The  old  vagabond  slowly  rose  and  stood  looking 
down  through  the  smoke — a  black  silhouette  against 
the  river,  the  watery  strip  of  sunset,  and  cottonwood 
boughs  dotted  with  great  nests  and  Druid  bundles  of 
mistletoe. 

"Let  carrion  lie!"  he  ordered  sternly.  "Come! 
Courage,  boy!  You  need  some  food  and  drink.  Let 
carrion  stay  where  it  falls.  If  it's  dead  it  will  float 
off  soon  enough.  The  river's  rising.  Come!  I  owe 
you  a  dinner  at  least." 

He  stooped  and  picked  the  forgotten  pistol  out  of 
the  sand. 

"Pawn  that,"  he  grumbled.  "Pawn  it,  we  can, 
for  a  dollar,  anyhow." 


Ill 


They  left  their  fire  smoldering  at  the  river's  edge, 
left  the  scarecrow  figure  asp  r awl,  and  climbed  to  the 
levee  top.  Here  a  beaten  path  of  hard  sand  tufted 
with  Bermuda  grass  went  curving  as  the  dike  curved, 
between  poplar  and  willow  boughs  on  the  right  hand 
and  on  the  left  acres  of  roofs.  Like  a  Noah's  Ark 
village  arranged  in  a  basin,  the  town  lay  sunk  be- 
neath them.  Boldero  and  the  old  man  walked  above 
chimneys.  Without,  beyond  the  trees,  they  saw  the 
yellow  stream  hurry  past,  below  them,  yet  higher  than 
the  streets  within. 

Doornail  Jimmy  set  an  easy  pace.  Boldero,  fol- 
lowing, saw  only  his  back;  but  he  became  conscious 
that  this  guide,  unlike  most  wanderers,  moved  with 
good  action,  not  slouching,  and  wore  a  coat  which  had 
been  made  to  fit  him  long  ago  from  well-woven  stuff. 
Homespun,  threadbare  and  faded  green,  it  still  was 
weatherproof,  pearled  with  gray  seeds  of  moisture. 

He  went  along  talking  to  nobody  in  his  flat,  deaf 
accent. 

240 


BOLDERO  241 

''Bloodthirsty  young  catamount!''  said  he.  **But 
I  owe  you  a  dinner.  Don't  know  why  you  should  kill 
men  on  my  behalf.  Never  saw  you  in  my  life.  Quix- 
otic!" 

The  far-off  sunlight  died  beneath  a  cover  of  indigo 
storm  clouds.  While  it  did  so,  the  Doornail  turned 
his  back  on  it  and  began  stumbling  down  a  divergent 
path  into  the  city. 

**This  way,"  he  muttered,  ''is  where  I  live." 

A  Chinese  temple  raised  the  dragon  scroll-work  of 
its  eaves  and  ridgepole  to  meet  them  as  they  descended. 
A  humble  joss  house,  built  in  old  brown  wood,  with 
traces  of  weatherworn  finery,  it  maintained  under 
shelter  of  the  levee  an  open  door  between  two  faded 
red  pillars — the  door  of  an  exiled  and  forsaken  faith, 
which  yet  flickered  visibly  from  the  inner  dusk  where 
pin-point  lamps  revealed  a  few  tinsel  banners  and 
gilded  godlings  crowded  among  shadows.  A  gong 
shuddered  once  or  twice  with  muffled  overtones ;  and 
a  bent,  black-hatted  figure  passed  before  the  altar 
like  a  weary  ghost. 

Into  this  temple  the  Doornail  peered  for  a  moment, 
then  moved  on,  skirting  its  battered  portico.  Through 
an  alley  choked  with  greenish  mud  and  queer  odors 
he  led  the  way,  round  a  corner,  through  more  alleys, 
to  a  ramshackle  street  lined  with  wooden  verandas. 
Here,  among  the  last  and  poorest  shops  of  the  Chinese 
Quarter,  he  paused.     Flame-colored  labels^  marked 


242  BOLDERO 

with  vertical  black  ideographs,  plastered  the  face  of 
a  brick  wall  in  which  was  a  little  sunken  door. 

''Come  upstairs/'  said  the  wanderer,  groping  for 
a  key  in  his  pocket.    **Come  up  and  have  a  talk/' 

He  made  hard  work  of  unlocking  the  door ;  but  at 
last  it  opened,  and  they  kicked  their  way  up  a  narrow 
flight  of  stairs,  darker  than  a  wolf's  mouth.  The 
darkness  contained  a  medicinal  smell  of  herbs.  At 
the  stairhead  the  old  man  seemed  to  pause  and 
grope.  Presently  an  iron  latch  clinked ;  a  door  upon 
the  left  opened  and  disclosed  a  room  full  of  twi- 
light. 

*  *  My  lodgings.    Enter ! ' ' 

It  was  a  little  room,  with  one  window,  the  walls  of 
matched  boarding  painted  an  Oriental  green.  A  table, 
three  chairs,  and  a  cot  bed  were  the  only  furniture — 
all  fairly  new  and  commonplace,  yet  all  transformed 
by  that  antiquity  which  settles  upon  the  commonest 
Chinese  belonging.  A  fireplace,  empty  and  black, 
seemed  ready  to  fall  in  ruin,  with  bricks  askew.  The 
window  stood  open  to  the  fading  western  light. 

Jimmy  closed  his  door. 

**Sit  down  over  here,"  said  he,  dragging  chairs  to 
the  window,  ** where  I  can  see  your  face.  Now  then! 
Why  didn't  you  let  'em  kill  me?  You  needn't  shout. 
Talk  naturally,  or  whisper.    I  can  read  lips." 

Boldero  sat  facing  him.  Outside,  the  levee  bank 
reared  its  wall  of  darkness,  and  a  little  grove  of 


BOLDERO  243 

switches,  beaded  with  pussy  willows,  formed  a  net- 
work sharply  against  the  sky.  It  was  impossible  to 
know  the  face  of  this  questioner,  who  leaned  back- 
ward into  gloom,  with  one  long,  slender  hand  covering 
the  eyebrows  like  a  visor. 

**I  couldn't  stand  by  and  let  'em.  Not  in  cold 
blood!'' 

** That's  very  brave." 

*'No!"  Boldero  rejected  the  compliment  in  dis- 
gust.   **No,  sir!    I  nearly  ran  away." 

The  man  leaning  in  the  shadow  made  a  movement. 

** Never  do  that,"  he  exclaimed  harshly.  ** Never 
run  away  from  anything.  It's  the  one  great  mistake. 
Go  on.    Tell  me  who  you  are,  by  the  way." 

Below  stairs,  in  another  part  of  the  house,  somebody 
was  playing  on  a  **Full  Moon."  The  whining  music, 
thinner  and  sharper  than  a  mandolin's,  penetrated 
the  room  and  made  an  accompaniment  to  Boldero 's 
history.  He  had  not  reached  that  afternoon's  episode 
when  his  hearer  checked  him : 

'*Too  dark  to  hear  what  you're  saying.  Wait  till 
we  have  a  lamp  and  some  dinner.  But  it's  the  same 
old  story,  frying  pan  and  fire.  You  jumped  6ut  of 
burglary  into  what  decent  people — ^not  you  and  I,  but 
decent  people — call  manslaughter.  Remember  that, 
my  boy.  Engrave  it  on  the  tablets  of  your  mind,  if 
you  have  a  mind." 


244  BOLDERO 

The  window  was  a  gray  blank;  the  room  and  its 
tenant  had  become  lost  in  obscurity. 

**Go  out  and  pawn  this  revolver/'  continued  the 
deaf  man's  voice.  **We  can  spoil  the  Egyptians  a  lit- 
tle.   And  here;  take  this.     Get  it  changed  for  me." 

Boldero,  receiving  the  pistol,  took  also  a  round  piece 
of  money — gold,  to  judge  by  the  weight,  and  by  its 
breadth  a  double  eagle. 

*  *  Twenty  dollars ! "  he  cried.    '  *  You  trust  me  ?  " 

The  other  laughed  at  his  amazement. 

*' Don't  know  whether  I  do  or  not,"  came  the 
dry  answer.  **Go  out  and  see.  Pawn  that  devil's 
plaything,  anyhow.  There's  a  Jew  next  door  to  the 
Acropolis  Bar.  Any  of  our  neighbors  will  direct  you. 
*And  mind  you  come  back  with  the  chynge — ^IMe!'  " 
A  world-weary  laugh  followed  this  injunction.  * '  Trot 
along.    You  can  leave  the  street  door  unlatched." 

Alone  in  the  street,  Boldero  found  himself  a  prey 
to  mingled  feelings.  He  had  killed  a  man,  and  the 
fact  crushed  him;  he  had  rescued  a  man  from  death, 
and  the  rescue  seemed  a  trifle.  This  queer  old  crea- 
ture upstairs,  for  whom  his  soul  was  blackened,  cared 
nothing  about  it  either  way,  but  treated  him  like  a 
child  whose  guilt  or  innocence  was  not  worth  con- 
sideration. 

'* What's  the  use,"  thought  Jack,  "of  trying  to 
do  the  right  thing?" 

Nevertheless,  he  went  on  his  errand  down  the  gloomy 


BOLDERO  245 

row  of  wooden  verandas.  A  few  lighted  windows 
here  and  there  disclosed  the  brown  interiors  of  shops 
where  Chinamen  sat  talking  soberly  among  tiers  of 
red-labeled  merchandise.  He  found  the  pawnbroker 
easily,  for  the  Acropolis  Bar  stood  bright  and  gaudy 
upon  a  comer  and  served  to  light  up  a  dusty  neigh- 
boring den,  the  front  of  which  was  crowded  with 
guitars,  accordions,  carpenters'  tools,  firearms,  and 
silver  watches.  In  this  den,  over  a  smoking  kerosene 
lamp,  he  quarreled  with  a  talkative  member  of  the 
lost  tribes,  a  degraded  and  discourteous  Jew,  who  at 
last  lent  him  four  bits  for  the  dead  man's  revolver. 

Thence  he  returned  to  the  glaring  Acropolis, 
where  amid  the  smoke,  heat,  and  sweaty  wrangling 
of  a  hundred  Macedonian  laborers,  he  caught  the 
bartender's  attention  long  enough  to  have  his  gold- 
piece  changed  into  silver.  The  Greeks  had  been  paid 
off  and  crowded  along  the  bar,  drinking  Dionysus 
brandy  and  jabbering  something  about  a  flood  from 
the  hills.  He  left  them  to  their  pleasure  and  re- 
gained the  cool  air  of  the  street. 

Halfway  home,  at  the  next  comer,  he  met  a  group 
of  three  men.  In  this  Chinese  Quarter,  this  foreign 
refuse  pile  of  the  town,  it  was  not  surprising  to  find 
one  of  the  men  a  tall  Sikh,  who  stood  very  straight  in 
an  old  khaki  jacket  and  wore  a  pink  turban. 

**The  Little  Old  Man,"  this  Easterner  was  saying 
in  excellent  English,  ''who  lives  at  the  Black  Door 


246  BOLDERO 

in  the  Wall?  Where  is  that  door,  please?  The  old 
man  who  cannot  hear '' 

'*Ah,  go  to  blazes,  raghead!''  growled  the  other 
two,  and  turned  slouching  away. 

The  Sikh  looked  after  them,  his  brown  face  touched 
with  the  mild  scorn  of  a  man  well  used  to  such  re- 
buffs. 

'  ^  Straight  ahead, ' '  said  Boldero.  * '  I  ^m  going  there 
myself.    Ahead;  on  your  right.'' 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  the  two  white  men  wheeled 
about.  Boldero  found  himself  facing  his  enemies; 
for  the  taller  of  the  two  was  the  big-nosed  man,  alive 
and  grim,  with  a  red-stained  bandage  under  his  hat 
and  dried  blood  upon  one  cheek  bone. 

**Come  along,  Fingers!''  urged  his  companion. 
*'It's  that  kid  again." 

But  Mr.  Fingers  advanced  with  a  menacing  air. 

*'I  see  it  is,"  he  cried.    ''I'll  fix  him  now." 

Boldero  cast  a  glance  behind.  The  Sikh  was  march- 
ing on  his  way. 

''No ;  you  won't ! "  he  retorted,  confronting  the  pair 
once  more.    "You're  not  man  enough." 

Something  in  Jack's  bearing,  and  a  slight  forward 
movement  of  his  hands,  bespoke  such  practised  readi- 
ness that  the  tall  man  halted.  They  stood  looking 
each  other  in  the  eyes. 

"This  ain't  no  place,"  said  Fingers,    "and   my 


BOLDERO  247 

head  swimxnin'  too.  But  there'll  be  other  places, 
don't  forget  that,  son.'' 

''Places  are  alike  to  me,''  stated  the  young  man 
boldly. 

*'A11  right.  We'll  meet  up."  The  other,  wagging 
his  damaged  head,  spoke  softly,  but  with  a  relish  of 
hatred.    * 'We'll  run  acrost  one  'nother." 

Jack's  eyes  suddenly  brightened. 

* '  Now  I  know  you ! "  he  exclaimed.  * '  Thought  that 
voice  was  familiar.  You  were  robbing  a  house  down- 
stairs"— he  named  the  town,  street,  day  and  hour — 
'  *  and  sung  out,  tellin '  me  to  go  upstairs.  Didn  't  you  ? 
We've  met  before." 

The  big-nosed  man  gave  a  start. 

'*0h!"  He  fixed  his  look  harder  than  ever.  His 
manner  changed.  "One  of  us,"  he  said  gravely,  "is 
meant  to  be  unlucky  for  the  other." 

"Well,"  agreed  Boldero,  "don't  count  on  me  for 
your  little  mascot." 

His  foe  remained  thoughtful. 

"One  of  us — ^meant  to  be — ^that's  plain.  I'm  a- 
comin',  Pill-Hop." 

With  that  he  turned,  rejoined  his  fellow,  and  walked 
slowly  away,  talking  as  he  went,  and  holding  a 
broken,  imperfect  hand  to  the  side  of  his  face.  As 
for  Boldero,  he  strolled  homeward  under  the  dark  ve- 
randas, chinked  the  money  in  his  pocket,  and  breathed 
great  draughts  of  the  night  air;  his  heart  light,  his 


248  BOLDERO 

conscience  free,  unburdened  of  a  dead  body  lying 
among  the  river  bushes. 

He  entered  the  Black  Door  in  the  Wall  to  find  a 
bright  light  streaming  downstairs.  His  host^s  room, 
above,  stood  open  to  the  landing,  and  gave  out  lively 
talk  that  ceased  as  he  went  up. 

The  little  deaf  ^man  and  the  tall  pink-turbaned 
Sikh  looked  at  him  across  a  table,  on  which  a  hot 
supper  smoked  by  the  light  of  four  candles. 

**Wuh  kaun  liaif"  inquired  the  Sikh. 

*'My  preserver,"  said  the  old  man  satirically,  but 
not  unkindly.    *^  Bolt  a  jao." 

The  two  went  on  speaking  in  a  foreign  tongue  of 
which  Boldero  understood  more  than  they  could  have 
guessed.  They  were  ending  some  brief  tale  of  a 
shipload  of  laborers,  and  more  than  once  used  the 
word  ''conspiracy." 

"Ill  probably  get  into  a  row,  then,"  said  the  Sikh 
at  last.  ''So" — ^he  drew  from  one  pocket  a  buck- 
skin pouch,  from  another  three  or  four  silver  war 
medals — "your  worship  will  take  care  of  these?" 

The  deaf  man  nodded. 

"Of  course!  Good  luck  to  you.  And,"  he  added, 
as  the  Sikh  laid  his  valuables  on  a  chair,  "remember, 
Ghanda  Singh,  if  ever  you  meet  this  boy  again,  he  is 
a  friend  of  mine." 

Ghanda  Singh  ^s  lean  brown  face  wore  a  smile  as 
he  regarded  Jackj  his  dark  eyes  twinkled  with  sa- 


BOLDERO  249 

gacity;  he  seemed  to  be  taking  Jack's  portrait  and 
stowing  it  away  at  the  back  of  his  mind. 

"Good!**  said  he,  then  gave  the  Doornail  a  very 
curious  salute,  set  his  lean  legs  in  motion, 
marched  to  the  stairs — ^the  lintel  brushing  his  pink 
turban — and,  with  a  nod  and  another  quick  smile, 
went  down  into  the  darkness. 

Greatly  interested,  Boldero  stood  watching  while 
the  old  man  opened  a  tiny  door  in  the  matched  board- 
ing of  the  wall,  gathered  up  the  buckskin  purse  and 
the  war  medals,  put  them  into  a  recess  or  cupboard, 
and  locked  them  safely  away  with  a  flat  key. 

*'I  was  once  in  India,''  he  observed,  as  though  re- 
plying to  a  question.  **Many  of  these  chaps  come 
to  see  me,  passing  through." 

With  that,  he  returned  to  the  table,  where  supper 
smoked  amid  the  candlelight. 

**Take  a  chair,  Mr.  Boldero,"  said  he;  and  when 
they  were  seated,  began  heaping  Jack's  plate  with 
rice,  chopped  bacon,  and  cubes  of  white  bean  cake: 
"How  much  did  you  get  from  the  Jew?" 

Boldero  laid  on  the  table  his  pocketful  of  money — 
the  Jew's  pittance,  two  small  coins,  apart  from  the 
rest. 

**You  keep  that,"  said  Jimmy,  sweeping  the  main 
heap  toward  himself  and  counting  it  carefully.  **The 
Jew's  money  is  yours,  of  course." 


250  BOLDERO 

Boldero  said  nothing,  and  took  the  two  coins  back 
again. 

''Satisfied?''  snapped  Doornail  Jimmy. 

His  pnpils  had  grown  narrow  and  keen  as  a  miser's ; 
yet  it  was  no  miser's  look,  Boldero  felt,  that  pierced 
him  now,  but  something  more  human,  more  complex, 
in  which  the  cupidity  aimed  at  higher  and  subtler 
affairs  than  money.  This  was  the  first  time  they 
had  seen  each  other  clearly;  and  with  a  touch  of 
wonder  Boldero  discovered  Jimmy's  face  to  be  any- 
thing but  that  of  the  drunken  vagabond  he  had 
taken  for  granted.  In  the  yellow  glow  of  the  candles 
it  shone  forth,  withered,  austere,  with  fine  features 
roughened  by  outdoor  wear,  and  pouched  eyelids 
forming  the  triangular  folds  of  age  round  a  pair  of 
glittering  eyes.  Neat-shaven,  hawk-nosed,  the  old  fel- 
low seemed  tart  as  a  frosty  apple  and  wary  as  a 
bird. 

''Quite  satisfied?" 

Boldero  nodded.  His  host  fell  to  eating  the  rice  and 
bean  cake  with  great  appetite.  The  only  drink  on 
the  table  was  two  cups  of  tea — covered  cups  without 
handles,  Chinese  fashion.  The  meal  proceeded  in 
silence;  but  when  they  had  left  the  platter  clean 
Boldero  found  those  birdlike  brown  eyes  fastened  on 
him  again. 

"I  like  people  who  are  easily  satisfied,"  declared 
the   Doornail,    "and   my   life   is   hardly   worth    a 


BOLDERO  251 

great  reward.  I  'm  not  ungrateful,  though.  Is  there 
anything  you*d  like  to  ask  me  for?'' 

**ye8/'  replied  Boldero,  finishing  his  tea  and  re- 
placing the  cover.    **Your  name?" 

*'Heh!"  The  other  chuckled  as  though  more  and 
more  pleased.  **Well,  sir,  you  may  call  me*' — Bol- 
dero perceived  the  choice  of  words — *'you  may  call 
me  James  Weechurch,  at  your  service.  But  what 
else  ?    For  yourself,  now.    What  do  you  want  ? ' ' 

**I  don't  want  anything,"  cried  Jack,  growing  in- 
dignant. ** Forget  it,  Mr.  Weechurch.  You  didn't 
hire  me  to  slug  that  hobo,  did  you?" 

For  the  first  time  Mr.  Weechurch  smiled;  and  the 
smile  brought  a  transformation,  making  his  wrinkled 
face  warmer,  wonderfully  kinder,  almost  young. 

**No,"  said  he.  **You're  my  benefactor.  We 
don't  always  like  our  benefactors;  but  I  rather  like 
you;  though  all  I'm  going  to  give  you  in  return  is 
what  I've  given  you  already,  a  piece  of  good  cou»- 
sel.  Keep  it,  for  it's  beyond  rubies,  and  a  pearl  of 
great  price.  It's  this:  Never" — ^he  tapped  out  the 
words  with  forefinger  on  table — **  never  run  away 
from  anything." 

Shoving  back  his  chair,  he  rose,  looked  meditative, 
and  drew  from  his  waistcoat  a  large  iron  key,  which 
he  laid  beside  Jack's  plate. 

**With  that  key  you  can  go  and  come,"  he  con- 
tinued.   *'Your  meals  here,  your  bed  in  the  back 


252  BOLDERO 

room.  I  make  you  heartily  free  of  the  house  on 
one  condition.''  He  paused,  and  repeated  with  em- 
phasis. ''Upon  one  condition:  that  you  hold  your 
tongue  and  do  not  speak,  outside,  of  anything  you 
may  see  or  hear  in  this  house — ^not  anything  what- 
soever.'' 

B  older 0,  glad  of  a  lodging  in  wet  weather,  promptly 
agreed. 

"And  now,"  continued  Mr.  Weechurch,  '*good 
night.  I'm  turning  in  early."  He  blew  out  two  of 
the  candles,  gave  the  third  to  his  guest,  and,  himself 
taking  the  fourth,  crossed  the  room  and  set  it  at 
his  bed's  head  on  a  wooden  sconce  from  which  he 
took  a  small  black  volume.  ''Good  night.  I  shall 
now  read  myself  to  sleep  from  the  dullest  book  ever 
printed  on  this  earth." 

Candle  in  hand,  Boldero  paused  at  the  threshold 
and  hesitated. 
."What's  its  name,  sir?" 

The  old  man  chuckled  and  darted  a  glance  of  ap- 
proval. 

"Its  name,"  he  replied,  folding  his  coat  neatly 
over  a  chair,  "is  Philip's  'Beauty  of  Female  Holi- 
ness.' Two  hundred  and  fifty-one  pages  of  poppy 
and  mandragora.  I've  been  reading  it  for  a  twelve- 
month and  am  mired  in  page  thirty.  You  like  books, 
then?" 


BOLDERO  253 

'*Yes,  sir/'  admitted  Boldero.  **Some.  Not 
many." 

Mr.  Weechurch  sat  down  to  unlace  his  boots. 

"Can't  have  this  one!'*  he  cried  jealously.  "It's 
my  nightcap,  my  posset,  my  door  into  the  vast  inane. 
Good  night  again,  boy!" 

It  was  characteristic  of  Boldero  that,  as  he  went 
exploring  by  reddish  candlelight  the  strangely  smell- 
ing corridor  which  led  to  his  new  quarters,  he  would 
not  have  exchanged  them  for  a  palace,  or  his  eve- 
ning's entertainment  for  all  the  theatres  in  Chris- 
tendom. » 

"And  he  has  good  table  manners,"  thought  Bol- 
dero.   * '  By  watching  I  can  learn  to  eat  right,  here. ' ' 


IV 


The  bedroom  to  which  Boldero  found  his  way  and 
which  his  candle  dimly  lighted  was  a  cavernous  little 
place,  filled  with  Chinese  refuse — ^broad,  varnished 
wicker  hats,  worn-out  sandals ;  rusty  hoes  and  trowels 
and  spades;  a  wilderness  of  bulbs,  roots,  withered 
herbs  piled  in  every  corner,  wreathed  round  the  win- 
dow frame,  dangling  overhead  from  a  network  of 
wires.  It  smelled  of  the  earth,  of  pungent  blossoms 
and  juices  not  quite  evaporated,  but  still  breathing 
virtue. 

Boldero  placed  his  candle  on  the  window  ledge 
and  sneezed.  Over  the  counterpane  of  a  neglected 
bed  there  were  scattered  little  bundles  of  dried  sea 
horses,  like  chess  knights  wrinkled  with  age.  He  put 
them  upon  a  shelf  before  turning  down  the  covers. 
It  was  a  strange  room,  and  Boldero  gloried  in  it. 

* '  What  a  lot, ' '  said  he,  *  ^  to  learn  about  this  house ! ' ' 

He  flung  open  the  window,  blew  out  his  candle,  and 
slipped  into  bed.  Though  not  a  sumptuous  couch,  it 
was  the  best  he  had  known  for  many  a  night.  To  hear 
rain  splash  and  trample  outside  the  window,  to  lie 

254 


BOLDERO  255 

so  near  a  drenching,  and  yet  be  as  dry  as  these  clean- 
smelling  herbs  roundabout,  enhanced  his  luxury. 

**A  heap  to  learn !*'  he  mumbled,  and  so  fell  com- 
fortably asleep,  looking  forward  to  great  things. 

He  woke  next  morning  with  a  sense  of  bright  prom- 
ise and  novelty,  though  his  room  and  the  world  were 
filled  rather  with  a  brown  gloom  than  with  daylight. 
Rain  crossed  his  window  in  heavy  vertical  lines,  like 
glass  rods,  which  melted  and  broke  into  silver  spray 
on  the  rusty  iron  of  Chinese  roofs,  a  green  trellised 
gourd  vine,  the  tiled  cornice  of  the  joss  house,  and  a 
sodden  courtyard  in  which  a  troop  of  Mandarin  ducks, 
their  varicolored  feathers  bedraggled  and  darkened, 
went  waddling  aimlessly  among  puddles. 

**Pine  weather,*'  he  thought  while  he  dressed,  '*to 
go  looking  for  work." 

In  the  corridor  he  found,  to  his  surprise,  a  band 
of  yellow  light  crossing  the  stairhead  where  the  door 
of  Mr.  Weechurch's  room  stood  open.  As  he  passed 
he  glanced  into  say  good  morning,  and  saw  Mr.  Wee- 
church  still  abed,  sitting  propped  on  pillows.  Two 
candles  burned  low  at  his  bedside,  as  for  a  wake. 
The  old  man's  head,  in  a  pointed  white  woolen  night- 
cap, which  made  him  look  like  Marley's  Ghost 
with  its  pigtail  on  end,  had  fallen  back.  His 
breath  came  regularly  and  peacefully;  his  eyes  were 
shut  fast;  his  arms,  clothed  in  the  sleeves  of  a  blue 
silk  wadded  jacket,  were  folded  on  the  counterpane; 


256  BOLDERO 

and  his  fingers  weakly  grasped  a  little  black  book. 
'*The  Beauty  of  Female  Holiness''  had  done  its  work. 

Boldero,  smiling,  was  about  to  pass,  when  he  saw  on 
the  table  a  thing  that  gleamed  in  the  candlelight. 

*'Ho!  This  won't  do!"  he  murmured,  and  stole 
into  the  room. 

The  gleaming  thing  on  the  table  was  a  small  scat- 
tered mound  of  money,  silver  and  gold  pieces ;  a  large 
old-fashioned  gold  watch,  with  a  heavy  chain ;  a  gold 
snuff-box;  and  a  locket  set  with  sparkling  stones  of 
different  colors. 

*'He  empties  his  pockets  there  and  leaves  the  door 
wide  open?"  thought  Boldero,  staring.  **This  won't 
ever  do !    He  needs  a  guardian. ' ' 

Glancing  from  the  little  hoard  to  its  owner,  he  had 
a  momentary  shock.  For  an  instant  he  thought  the 
old  man's  eyes  had  seemed  open,  watching  him:  but 
they  were  not ;  it  must  have  been  some  trick  of  can- 
dlelight and  shadow. 

Boldero  stared  again  at  the  shining  heap  on  the 
table  and  wagged  his  head  disapprovingly. 

* '  Mr.  Weechurch ! "  he  said  aloud.  *  *  Oh,  Mr.  Wee- 
church!" 

Remembering  the  man's  deafness,  he  stepped  over 
and  shook  the  footboard  of  his  bed.  **The  Beauty  of 
Female  Holiness"  tumbled  from  his  relaxed  fingers  as 
lifelike  as  possible.  The  head  and  its  goblin  night- 
cap rolled  gently  from  side  to  side.    Yes,  he  must 


BOLDEHO  257 

have  been  asleep;  he  woke  easily  and  naturally,  his 
brown  eyes  wandering  at  first,  then  growing  alert  and 
fixed.  With  an  effort  of  drowsy  muscles,  his  lean 
face  drew  into  a  smile. 

**Who  are  you?  Oh,  yes!  Good  morning.  What 
is  itr' 

Boldero  nodded  at  the  pile  on  the  table. 

**That  ain^t  right,  sir,*'  he  declared  in  rebuke,  "to 
leave  a  mint  of  valu'bles  lyin*  loose,  and  your  door 
wide  opent  You  11  wake  up  some  mornin*  and  find 
it  all  gone;  or,  what^s  more,  you  won^t  wake  up  at  all. 
Honestly,  sir,  it  ain't  safe  at  your  age." 

Mr.  Weechurch  considered  this  advice  with  a  look 
which  seemed  unnecessarily  cunning. 

**I  seldom  do  it,"  he  replied  at  last.  From  Bol- 
dero's  serious  young  face  he  glanced  toward  the  table ; 
then  yawned.  *'It  was  careless,  as  you  say,  at  my 
age.  Give  me  the  watch,  will  you?  And  put  the 
rest  back  into  my  pockets  there.  Good!  Many 
thanks." 

And,  humping  his  knees  comfortably  under  the  bed- 
clothes, he  began  to  wind  his  great  gold  watch  with  a 
careful,  preoccupied  air.  Boldero  saw  that  the  time- 
piece had  a  chequered  shield  and  a  pig's  head  en- 
graved on  its  broad  back. 

"What  amuses  you?"  inquired  Mr.  Weechurch 
suddenly. 

"Mq?'*    The  young  mai^  was  taken  u^aw^^e,  fp^ 


258  BOLDERO 

he  knew  he  certainly  had  not  smiled.  ''Why — ^well — 
it  seemed  funny,  kind  of,  to  go  and  spoil  a  splendid 
watch  by  carvin*  pigs  on  it/' 

His  friend  looked  very  much  surprised. 

*' Carving  pigsT'  Weechurch  peered  at  him  as 
though  he  were  mad,  turned  the  watch  over  and  over, 
studied  it,  then  laughed.  **0h,  ah,  you're  right. 
That  pig  is  rather  silly.  Heralds  cleverly  disguise 
the  absurdity  by  calling  him  a  boar.'' 

This  speech  left  Boldero  fathoms  deep  in  mystifi- 
cation. Heralds?  He  knew  heralds:  they  were  old- 
fashioned  military  bandsmen,  who  used  to  blow  brass 
horns  and  wear  queer  shirts  like  a  couple  of  towels 
pinned  together  at  the  corners.  They  were  all  dead, 
anyway.  What  could  a  set  of  dead-and-gone  buglers 
have  to  do  with  this  pig  on  a  watch  ? 

**0h,  I  see!"  he  replied,  not  to  betray  any  ignor- 
ance. 

But  when,  with  a  promise  to  return  to  dinner,  he 
had  shut  the  old  man's  door  for  him  and  stumbled 
down  the  dark  stairway,  Boldero  found  this  puzzle 
heavy  on  his  mind.  He  was  hag-ridden  by  it  while 
he  ate  a  dime's  worth  of  breakfast  at  an  oilcloth  coun- 
ter, and  even  afterward. 

"That  Old  Fox  there — ^was  he  laughing  up  his 
sleeve?"  Boldero  could  not  answer  the  question. 
''Maybe  it  ain't  him  needs  a  guardian.  Maybe  it's 
me.    After  all,  I  don't  believe  he  was  asleep  for  a 


» 


BOLDERO  259 


minute.  But,  if  not,  now  what  was  his  game?  Times 
I  think  he*s  deeper 'n  a  well  and  smarter *n  a  whip; 
times  I  wonder  if  he's  got  good  sense.  A  miracle  he 
ain't  been  killed  before  I  came  along.'' 

So  thinking,  he  wandered  the  streets  to  look  for 
work.  Under  the  broad  verandas  he  could  travel 
dry,  though  the  rain  slanted  its  white  lines  down  the 
streets  and  blew  like  smoke  along  the  asphalt.  Bol- 
dero  had  little  hope  of  getting  employment  in  such 
weather,  but  would  not  fail  for  lack  of  trying. 

**I  can't  sorn  on  Doornail  Jimmy  forever,"  he 
vowed;  **or  try  to  live  off  what  I  done  for  him." 

Proceeding  in  this  frame  of  mind,  he  met  immedi- 
ately with  good  fortune.  At  the  third  street  cor- 
ner a  round  little  bright-eyed  man,  with  a  florid  wet 
face  looking  through  the  collar  of  a  rubber  coat, 
darted  at  him  from  somewhere  and  cried: 

''Hold  on,  boy!    Want  a  job?" 

''You  bet!"  said  Boldero. 

"Look  as  if  you  could  juggle  a  sandbag,"  snapped 
the  little  bright-eyed  man.  "Run  up  on  the  levee 
there,  by  the  bridge ;  report  to  Mr.  Breagan,  and  tell 
him  the  mayor  sent  you.  Couple  of  dollars  in  it.  Go 
after  'em." 

Flapping  a  rubber  sleeve  in  the  direction  of  the 
river,  he  was  gone. 

"Thank  you,  sir!"  cried  Boldero  vainly,  and  set 
off  at  a  run. 


260  BOLDERO 

High  on  the  levee,  black  against  "willow  tops  and 
the  gloomy  sky,  more  rubber-coated  men  were  hurry- 
ing back  and  forth,  shouting,  waving  their  flippers 
like  penguins.  Boldero  clambered  up  to  join  them. 
A  tired  foreman  made  him  welcome  with  great  curses. 
For  the  next  ten  hours  he  labored  mightily,  wet  to 
the  skin  but  red-hot  and  cheerful,  shoveling  gray 
river  sand  into  jute  bags,  carrying  them  on  stretch- 
ers, piling  them  to  form  a  bulkhead  under  the  ramp 
of  a  wooden  bridge.  Half  the  time  he  stood  in  the 
river,  which  coursed  violently,  a  muddy  orange  tor- 
rent hissing  louder  than  wind  or  rain.  Half  the 
time  he  sweated  on  the  dike  above  a  scene  of  glassy- 
white  roofs,  with  here  and  there  a  forgotten  flag 
whipping  itself  to  pieces  on  a  bending  staff.  He 
went  home  after  dark,  thoroughly  tired,  and  dripping 
like  a  water  rat,  but  with  a  time  card  in  his  pocket. 

** Heavens,  young  one!"  cried  Mr.  Weechurch  at 
the  stairhead.  **Are  you  come  back  from  the  bot- 
tom of  the  sea?  Come  here!"  In  a  brown  dressing 
gown  corded  at  the  waist,  the  old  man  stood,  like 
a  monk,  before  a  fire  that  roared  up  the  ruinous 
chimney  throat.  "Come  in!  Put  on  something 
dry.*' 

He  bustled  about  the  room  until  Boldero,  in  a  suit 
of  Chinese  woolen  pyjamas  and  thick  sandals,  sat 
lolling  before  the  live-oak  blaze,  watching  his  clothes 
steam  on  a  chair  back. 


BOLDERO  261 

** Drink  this/'  Weechurch  shoved  a  tumbler  into 
his  hand  and  poured  from  a  round-bodied  earthen 
bottle  a  few  drops  of  some  angry-colored  liquor.  *  *  It  ^s 
the  real  ng  ga  pi,  and  will  do  your  business.*' 

The  drink  tasted  like  quinine,  ginger,  and  earth 
moidd  dissolved  in  flame.  Boldero  coughed.  Tears 
sprang  to  his  eyes. 

**Now,"  chuckled  his  host,  *'you  feel  like  Ram  Dass 
with  the  fire  in  his  belly.    Don't  you T' 

Putting  away  the  earthern  bottle,  Weechurch  drew 
up  the  third  chair  and  sat  beside  Jack  to  toast  his 
feet  at  the  blaze.  For  a  time  neither  man  spoke; 
both  enjoyed  the  silence  and  their  hearth;  till  pres- 
ently, what  with  the  warmth  and  the  effect  of  that 
potent  medicine,  Boldero  found  his  nature  expand- 
ing in  a  glow  of  kindness. 

**Mr.  Weechurch,  I  got  a  confession  to  make." 

''Make  it,"  said  the  monk,  twisting  his  girdle. 

Boldero  considered. 

''It's  only  fair.  You've  been  darn'  good  to  me," 
he  began.  **  'Tain't  every  man  would  house  me  so 
pleasant  and  friendly.  Treatment  tells.  This  morn- 
ing I  felt  inquisitivelike,  and  thought  I'd  try  to  find 
out  more  about  you  and  your  house.  I'm  ashamed  of 
that  now,  sir ;  and,  before  we  go  any  further,  I  want 
to  own  that  when  you  stood  talkin'  with  your  raghead 
friend,  Ghanda  Singh,  last  night — well,  I  could  un- 
derstand part  of  what  you  two  was  sayin'." 


262  BOLDERO 

The  brown  hermit  started  up  in  his  chair. 

'^How  muchr'  he  asked.     *^ Which  part?*' 

Boldero  told  him  fully  and  honestly. 

*'But  how  could  youT'  inquired  Mr.  Weechurch. 

Boldero  stretched  his  legs  before  the  hot  live-oak 
billets. 

** Because/'  he  answered  dreamily,  as  though  his 
short  life  were  ages  long — *' because  the  first  I  re- 
member, when  I  was  a  little  stray  of  a  boy,  old  Eph 
Bucklands,  the  tin  peddler,  carted  me  round  Canada 
and  New  England  on  his  cart.  Eph  said  he  went 
soldier  to  the  East  Injun  Mutiny,  whatever  that  was. 
He  was  a  funny  old  feller,  wore  earrings,  used  to 
play  the  humstrum  to  all  the  dances,  and  win  money 
on  horse  trots  at  the  fairs.  He  taught  me  how  to  run 
foot  races.''  Boldero 's  face  shone  with  the  memory 
of  past  delights.  **  Old  Ephr 'm  allowed  he  could  talk 
East  Injun,  and  taught  me  bits  of  it,  so's  he  and  I 
could  carry  on  conversation  private,  among  us  two. 
I  was  knee-high  to  Bildad  then — ^no  father  nor  mother ; 
so  everything  come  natural,  you  might  say.  We'd 
talk  all  kinds  o'  stuff  right  before  people's  faces 
without  lettin'  on.  It  made  me  kind  of  sly,  maybe; 
but  I  don't  want  to  fool  you." 

He  stared  at  the  fire  and,  therefore,  did  not  see 
his  companion's  face;  but  he  heard  an  altered  voice 
replying. 

'*John,  my  son,"  said  Weechurch,  *' confession  is 


BOLDERO  263 

good  for  the  inwards.  Now  let  me  unbuckle  a  few 
holes.'*  He  laughed.  **It  was  a  trap  I  set  for  you 
this  morning.  I  wasn't  asleep.  When  you  saw  those 
gewgaws  on  my  table,  and  walked  in  to  wake  me — 
well,  you  chose  the  proper  course.  Had  you  taken 
anything,  you  might  never  have  got  out  this  door 
with  it,  boy.''  ,. 

Boldero's  eyes  opened,  very  blue  and  wide. 

'*Was  that  it?"  he  cried.  His  face  lighted  with 
satisfaction.  ''I  couldn't  imagine  why.  You  didn't 
seem  asleep  just  right,  someway,  but  I  never  thought 
of  that,  Mr.  Weechurch!" 

His  monkish  friend  parted  a  smile  between  him 
and  the  fire. 

''Call  me  Jimmy." 

"I  never  once  thought  of  it,  Jimmy." 

Doornail  Jimmy  shrank  into  his  brown  wrap, 
laughed  again,  and  drew  in  his  feet  from  the  hearth. 

*  *  Now  we  know  each  other ! "  he  proclaimed.  *  *  And 
it's  time  we  ate  some  food.  I  saw  you  never  thought 
once." 

He  got  up,  shuffled  to  the  landing,  and  snarled 
something  down  the  stairs  in  discordant  Chinese. 

*  *  Time  for  dinner,  boy, ' '  said  he.  * '  You  must  turn 
in  early,  and  sleep  hard  all  night" 


Half  of  this  advice  Boldero  followed  easily;  but 
the  other  half  was  in  the  hands  of  fate.  It 
seemed  that  he  had  hardly  forgotten  his  aching  mus- 
cles, and  begun  to  dream  of  India-rubber  men  who 
flapped  their  wings  like  penguins,  when  suddenly  a 
glare  hurt  his  eyes  and  voices  hailed  him.  He  woke  to 
find  a  figure  from  his  dream  invading  the  room — a 
burly  man  in  wet  rubber  that  shone  red  by  the  light 
of  a  lantern  he  carried,  a  man  dripping  like  the 
drowned  sailor  ^s  ghost  in  the  ballad.  Mr.  Wee- 
churches  face  appeared  somewhere  in  the  background. 
Buindles  of  dried  herbs  and  their  shadows  played 
phantasmagoria  round  walls  and  ceiling. 

*'Get  up!*'  commanded  the  formidable  lantern 
bearer.  ''It's  the  mayor's  orders.  He  wants  every 
able-bodied  man  up  and  out.  Water's  comin'  in 
over  the  North  Levee. ' ' 

Boldero  blinked,  for  this  vision  and  these  words  had 
no  meaning. 

*'Come!  Up!"  cried  the  stranger;  and,  lumber- 
ing forward,  he  grasped  all  the  bedclothes  by  the 

264 


BOLDERO  265 

middle  and  whisked  them  aloft  in  one  fist,  like  a 
conjurer  removing  the  magic  napkin.  *'Up,  unless 
you  mean  to  lay  there  drownded  like  a  rat.  The 
whole  town '11  be  one  bottom  of  a  lake  inside  half 
an  hour!" 

With  this  gloomy  prediction  he  dropped  the  bed- 
othes  on  the  floor,  and  applied  his  hot  lantern 
chimney  to  the  soles  of  John's  feet. 

*'I'm  comin','*  stammered  Boldero,  and  hopped  out 
of  bed.    **  Which  way  r' 

The  black-armored  giant  rolled  across  the  room,  his 
long  coat  rasping  as  he  went. 

**Ride  in  the  wagons,  if  they  ain't  all  gone,"  he 
ordered,  swinging  his  lantern  in  the  doorway.  **If 
they  are  gone,  follow  their  lights.  North  Levee. 
Wake  up  and  get  that!  North!  See?  North  side  of 
town." 

He  disappeared,  and  ran  thundering  down  the 
stairs.    Mr.  Weechurch  spoke  in  the  darkness. 

** Dress  in  my  room,"  said  his  voice. 

Candles  and  fire  had  burned  low,  but  his  little  room 
seemed  too  warm  and  bright  to  leave  on  such  a  dismal 
errand.  Boldero  admired  it  ruefully.  It  was  a  kind 
of  home. 

*  *  What  time  o  *  night  ?  "  he  asked. 

Weechurch  took  down  from  a  nail  his  famous  gold 
watch. 

**The  Pig  says  two  o'clock.    It's  morning.    If  I 


266  BOLDERO 

were  younger  I  'd  go.  My  poor  old  son,  your  clothes 
aren't  half  dried  from  yesterday.'' 

Boldero  found  them  warm,  but  clammy  and  leaden. 

**No  matter,"  he  grumbled,  as  he  rammed  his  legs 
through  adhesive  swaddlings.  **I  expect  they  need 
all  hands.    You  go  hop  back  into  bed." 

He  opened  his  cap,  which  was  like  a  cold  pudding, 
and  smashed  it  down  over  his  head. 

*'We  won't  let  you  get  drownded,"  said  Boldero, 
grinning';  **not  if  we  have  to  fetch  down  the  Ark 
off  Ararat.     Go  to  sleep,  father." 

He  galloped  downstairs  and  forth  into  the  rain, 
happy  as  a  colt  to  imagine  he  had  someone  dependent 
on  him,  someone  he  must  protect.  The  notion  sent 
his  spirit  mounting. 

The  streets  were  a  vista  of  dead  houses  and  glossy 
pavement  striped  with  long  blue  reflection  from  arc 
lamps,  past  the  blurred  radiance  of  which  fell  num- 
berless white  streaks  of  rain.  No  wagons-  appeared 
anywhere,  but  wheels  rumbled  upon  asphalt,  far 
away.  Boldero  began  running  after  them.  *' Can't 
let  Jimmy  drownd  in  his  bed,"  he  thought.  The 
houses,  the  lamps,  the  empty  streets  unrolled  before 
him  and  drew  behind  as  he  raced  along  with  echoing 
footsteps.  Presently  there  was  no  more  town,  no 
pavement,  no  echo,  and  he  churned  heavily  through 
mud,  alone  in  the  dark.  Past  fields,  past  the  crowd- 
ed blackness  of  vegetable  gardens,  along  a  flat  waste 


BOLDERO  ,  267 

where  the  hiss  and  sputter  of  rain  marked  solitude, 
a  tiny  reddish  spark  trailed  far  ahead,  guiding  him 
northward.  As  he  overtook  this  travelling  drop  of 
fire,  he  heard  some  wooden  gear  racketing;  a  horse 
coughed,  an  axle  groaned,  leather  traces  flapped  loose 
and  taut  with  a  rhythmical  creaking. 

Suddenly  Boldero  splashed  through  a  pool  and  saw 
heaving  before  him  the  stern  of  a  wagon  on  which 
lay  huddled  men,  asleep  or  dead.  A  lantern  burned 
on  the  driver  *s  perch.  Boldero  caught  the  tailboard, 
vaulted  from  a  quagmire,  and  landed  head  first  among 
these  bodies  of  men. 

They  were  not  dead,  for  as  he  plowed  into  them 
they  grunted  and  sat  erect.  A  dozen  voices  jab- 
bered at  him.  His  friends  of  the  Acropolis,  the 
Macedonian  laborers,  woke  to  stare  through  raindrops 
and  crossed  lantern  rays  at  the  newcomer.  * '  Georgi  ? ' ' 
cried  one.  *  *  Triantaphyllou  ? ' '  said  another.  *  *  No, '  * 
a  third  growled;  ** American.  What  you  wanta, 
hehr*  This  wagonload  was  all  Greek  and  smelled 
ranker  than  cattle.  A  man  whose  legs  dangled  over 
the  near  front  wheel  began  chanting  a  song  without 
end — How  Papa  Oneiropolos  Tamed  the  Wild  Stal- 
lion. 

** Dream-Dealer  hound  the  7iorse*s  moutJi, 

Ho,  Jiey,  a  raging  heast! 
He  roped  Jiis  legs  out,  North  and  South, 


268  BOLDERO 

Haul  away,  West  and  East, 
Four  iron  shoes  on  a  -fighting  beast! 
The  corn  is  up;  the  Lord  arisen!" 

While  this  song  continued  mournfully — half  im- 
provised, half  recalled  from  ballads  and  Easter 
legends — Boldero  snuggled  down  into  the  wet,  steam- 
ing mass  of  men.  They  accepted  him,  let  him  lie. 
Their  cart  labored  on  through  mud  and  water.  Rain 
pelted  everyone.  The  singer  lifted  a  young  barytone 
voice  to  wail  out  the  Dream-Dealer's  long-drawn 
miracles;  and  to  this  Lenten  music  the  town  lights 
dwindled  beyond  a  mile  or  more  of  darkness  and 
waste  land.    Thus  they  came  to  the  North  Levee. 

**Git  out,*'  said  the  driver  of  the  wagon.  *' Here's 
Kellaway  Grade  Crossin'.    Take  your  shovels." 

At  this  point  the  North  Levee  was  a  long  hillock 
of  grass  lighted  by  a  feast  of  lanterns,  and  scarred 
with  footpaths  of  orange  mud.  A  road,  trampled 
into  paste,  climbed  this  hillock  to  end  in  a  rampart 
of  sandbags.  All  the  rubber-coated  penguins  of  Bol- 
dero's  dream  were  running  about  here,  digging  with 
shovels,  carrying  jute  sacks,  calling  out  commands, 
clambering  up  and  falling  down  the  levee  side. 

A  round  little  fury,  daubed  all  over  with  clay, 
charged  among  the  unloading  Greeks  and  shouted: 

"Who's  leader  here?" 

No  one  replied. 


BOLDERO  269 

**Who's  your  boss?" 

Boldero  recognized  his  friend,  the  mayor  of  the 
city. 

'I'll  lead  'em,  sir,"  he  offered,  *if  you  11  gimme 
authority. ' ' 

The  furious  mayor  wiped  his  eyes  and  grinned. 

'  *  Go  to  it,  boy  I  You  're  all  right, ' '  said  he.  * '  Take 
your  mudhens  up  where  the  railroad  crosses,  and 
sandbag  her  good  and  heavy.  She's  a  low  spot  like 
this.  No  time  to  lose.  We  forgot  her.  Mind!  You're 
captain.    Drive  the  work!" 

Boldero  waved  an  arm  above  his  Greeks  and  cried, 
as  though  he  had  owned  them  all  hi&  life : 

*'Come  on,  fellers!  This  way!  Shovels  wanted. 
Fetch  your  sacks.  Come  on!  Come  on!  Tumble 
up!" 

They  climbed  the  slippery  bank  among  the  clus- 
tered lights  and  made  off  westward,  falling  over  a 
lumpy  rounded  battlement  of  sandbags.  Before  they 
had  gone  far,  Boldero  discovered  that  in  his  gang 
only  two  carried  lanterns.  He  ran  back  to  beg  for 
more. 

**Lend  me  a  light!"  he  shouted. 

The  workers,  busy  with  spades,  handbarrows, 
picks,  carrying-litters  of  lashed  saplings,  glared  at 
him  and  told  him  to  go  to.  In  that  turmoil  they 
had  no  time  to  listen.  He  snatched  at  the  bail  of  a 
lantern  that  stood  perched  on  a  heap  of  mud.    Its 


270  BOLDERO 

guardian  shoving  him  backward,  he  stepped  on  what 
appeared  to  be  solid  ground,  and  immediately,  waist- 
deep,  went  sonse  into  the  river.  The  invisible  flood 
swirled  round  him,  carried  his  feet  from  under  him 
as  he  splashed  and  fought  his  way  back  upon  the 
dike.  A  man  dropped  a  sandbag  to  laugh  breath- 
lessly.   Nobody  else  heeded  him. 

**Go  to  the  devil  yourself!'' 

Boldero,  laughing  also,  ran  off  lanternless  to  re- 
join his  Greeks. 

They  continued  stumbling  in  single  file,  and  sang 
no  longer,  but  cursed  in  perplexity.  Between  the 
darkness  where  the  bank  sloped  inward  and  the  faint 
shine  of  the  river,  to  walk  on  these  rounded  backs  of 
slimy  jute  was  like  walking  over  greased  pigs.  A 
few  hundred  yards  of  such  going  seemed  as  many 
miles.  When  the  lights  of  the  Kellaway  Grade  Cross- 
ing made  a  misty  glare  far  behind,  the  string  of  men 
came  down  off  the  last  sandbag,  and  not  long  after- 
ward plunged  into  a  depression  where  the  path  felt 
smooth  and  semi-fluid. 

*'Gorry!''  said  Boldero.    **The  river's  got  over!" 

Their  two  lanterns  disclosed  a  thin,  jet-bright 
layer  of  water  stealing  over  the  narrow  path.  The 
rails  and  ties  of  a  disused  freight  line  crossed  the 
levee  in  this  depression,  which  the  flood  had  not  over- 
looked. 

"Here!    One  light  here;  one  below!" 


BOLDERO  271 

A  broad-backed,  sullen  little  old  Greek  understood 
him  and  shouted  interpretation.  Boldero  grasped 
this  man  by  the  arm,  electing  him  lieutenant  and  keep- 
ing him  close. 

**Half  of  'em  below  in  that  patch  o*  mud  to  dig 
and  fill  sacks.  Other  half  lug  up  here  and  pile.  The 
man  that  don't  work,  I'll  chuck  him  into  jail — eis  tas 
pJiulakas!    Get  me?" 

The  little  morose  man  promptly  nodded. 

'*Asklipios!"  he  shrilled.  ^'Ithanasso!"  He 
bawled  names  and  orders  in  profusion  through  the 
rain.  His  countrymen  obeyed,  ran  shouting  down 
the  bank,  and  quickly  began  to  ply  their  shovels. 
''Eet  ees  no  good,  sar,"  he  reported,  with  a  gesture 
of  despair.    **The  bags  they  air  too  haivy." 

Boldero  followed  the  gesture  and  became  aware 
that  his  gang  had  neither  stretcher  nor  barrow. 

*'Too  heavy?  Hell!"  quoth  Boldero.  '*Do  it  by 
main  strength  and  awkwardness." 

Through  dripping  tumbleweed  and  grass  he  slid 
down  among  the  diggers,  who  lifted  him  on  foot  and 
stared  at  him,  disconsolate,  round  the  lantern  ring 
in  a  mudhole.  He  grasped  one  of  the  full  sandbags. 
Indeed,  it  sat  too  heavy.  *  *  Can 't  lift  it ! "  he  thought. 
But  his  men  kept  their  eyes  upon  him  so  that  he  could 
not  endure  the  idea  of  failing  publicly.  **Here; 
watch!"  said  he;  and,  twisting  the  **ears"  of  the  bag, 
by  a  fearful  wrench  managed  to  whirl  it  a  hands- 


272  BOLDERO 

breadth  from  the  ground,  to  crouch,  throw  one  hip 
under,  and  swing  the  dead  weight  across  his  loins  with 
a  blow  that  staggered  him.  '  *  Come  on ! ' '  he  groaned, 
crawling  up  the  levee  again  like  a  foundered  horse. 
''Come  on!" 

As  he  went  splayfooting,  he  saw  a  fat  old  Greek 
hug  another  bag  into  the  pit  of  his  stomach  and  loy- 
ally follow. 

The  work  had  begun.  They  two  dumped  their  loads 
near  the  other  lantern  where  the  water  flowed  thinly, 
and  then  came  tumbling  down  for  more.  While  they 
did  so  a  flash  of  common  sense  crossed  B  older o's  mind. 

''Half  full!'*  he  shouted.  "Fill  your  bags  half 
full.'' 

The  Greeks  caught  his  idea,  and  laughed  as  men 
laugh  to  whom  the  obvious  comes  like  an  inspiration. 
There  was  no  more  hanging  back.  Half  a  bag  of  wet 
mud  was  no  child's  plaything,  but  they  filled  and 
carried  busily.  Within  an  hour  they  could  see  by  the 
upper  lantern  a  cobbled  wall  of  sacks  blocking  the 
depression  where  railroad  and  levee  crossed.  Their 
defense  was  holding,  and  even  gaining  on  the  flood. 
Half  an  hour  more  of  such  work  would  render  this 
point  safe. 

"Doing  grand,  fellers!"  panted  Boldero.  He 
was  a  mass  of  slimy  clay,  so  hot  and  wet  that  he 
felt  parboiled.  It  would  never  do  to  show  exhaus- 
tion,   "Grancl  work!    Where's  your  singer?    Tell 


BOLDERO  273 

him  to  knock  off  and  sing  for  us.  Music,  here! 
Music!'' 

"Ithanasso!''  bawled  the  lieutenant.  **Sing  for 
us!'' 

Ithanasso  obeyed  in  the  darkness,  and  began  to 
chant  again  the  wonderful  adventures  of  Papa  Dream- 
Dealer.  He  was  encouraging  the  work,  melodiously- 
yelling  something  about  a  merry  devil  named  Calli- 
cantzaros,  when  hoarse  cries  above,  on  the  right,  cut 
him  short.  A  man  came  heavily  running  from  no- 
where to  leap  upon  the  new  wall — a  white  face  and 
waving  arms  in  the  mist  of  lantern  light  and  rain. 

** She's  busted!"  wailed  this  fellow.  '*Run  for 
it,  boys !  The  levee 's  broken  both  sides  of  ye !  Run  I 
She's  busted!" 

The  wild  figure  fell  among  them,  shouting  incohe- 
rent orders  to  flee.  With  a  great  hubbub  the  Greeks 
dropped  everything  and  ran  down  the  inner  slope  of 
the  levee.  One  lantern  toppled,  rolled  flaming,  and 
was  smashed  underfoot ;  the  other,  caught  up  hastily, 
led  the  whole  rout,  bobbing  among  a  herd  of  legs 
and  casting  queer  shadows  that  fled  from  under  the 
scarred  mudbank. 

Boldero  found  himself  swept  along,  fought  back 
with  his  fists,  tripped,  fell,  banged  his  head  on  a  rail 
or  the  edge  of  a  shovel,  and  rose  blindly,  with  blood 
thickening  the  rain  down  his  cheek. 

**Come  back!"  he  shouted, 


274  BOLDERO 

He  was  alone.  For  a  few  steps  he  lurched  after 
the  lantern  and  its  crowd  of  flying  shadows. 

**No!*'  he  stammered. 

The  words  of  old  Doornail  Jimmy,  the  deaf  man, 
resounded  through  his  daze  and  told  him  to  stop, 
to  halt ;  never  to  run  away. 

**I  can't  do  anything  more/'  his  weakness  argued 
reasonably. 

If  the  levee  had  broken,  no  man  could  be  of  service 
here.  He  had  seen  dikes  break  in  other  low  coun- 
tries, and  perfectly  remembered  how  a  hundred  yards 
of  earth,  solid  as  a  hill,  can  melt,  fall  inward  and 
flow  like  chocolate. 

** Don't  run!"  repeated  the  ghostly  voice.  **It's 
the  one  great  mistake." 

He  was  alone  with  that  ghost  of  morality. 

**If  she  ain't  broken,"  he  thought,  smearing  blood 
from  his  eyebrows,  *  *  and  I  leave  this  part  of  her,  why, 
she  may  bust  right  here  for  lack  of  watching." 

He  crawled  back  painfully,  up  the  ooze  of  his  de- 
serted post. 

**If  we  was  soldiers  we  couldn't  leave."  The  sup- 
position  more  or  less  comforted  him.  **We  didn't  get 
no  real  orders.  That  cuss  who  came  a-bellowing  to 
run,  his  face  looked  unreliable,  kind  of  poor  white 
to  me,  and  scared.  Maybe  he  didn't  know.  Maybe 
he  just  heard  a  rumor  and  was  trying  to  play  Johns- 
town hero.    Always  is  some  fool  like  that!" 


BOLDERO  275 

Boldero  sat  down  on  the  unfinished  bulwark.  He 
was  of  a  piece  with  it,  water-logged  and  slippery.  A 
noise  of  waters  filled  the  night,  until  gradually  night 
grew  paler  and  paler.  Tangible  rain  became  visible 
as  gray  beads  rolling  down  the  mud  poultice  on  his 
chest,  down  the  woven  jute  and  clay  mush  he  sat 
on,  down  through  the  wiry  globes  of  last  year's  tum- 
bleweed  at  his  feet.  He  waited,  cold  and  motionless, 
except  when  lifting  a  hand  to  wipe  from  his  eyebrows 
more  blood,  which  ran  slower  and  heavier  now,  as 
though  freezing. 

Dawn  began  to  stain  the  darkness,  a  sour  dull- 
green  light  that  showed  the  curve  of  the  levee.  From 
the  crossbars  of  a  telephone  line  sunken  in  the  flood 
without,  batches  of  stuff  hung  like  seaweed;  treetops 
appeared  here  and  there  as  islands,  tufts  of  infant 
bushes;  and  all  the  rest  of  the  world  extended  as  a 
colorless  lake  without  motion,  though  now  and  then 
some  black  object — driftwood  or  a  dead  carcass — 
passed  in  revolving  flight,  with  sinister,  gulping 
noises. 

"What's  that?"  Boldero  drowsily  asked  himself. 

It  seemed  impossible  to  keep  awake,  yet  he  strug- 
gled out  of  his  weary  dream  to  mark  some  dull  gray 
thing  crawling  along  under  his  thighs.  He  stared 
down  at  it  stupidly.  It  had  a  slow,  furtive  movement, 
lapping,  withdrawing,  lapping  forward  again.    Bol- 


I 


276  BOLDERO 

dero  retained  enough  sense  to  know  this  crawling 
grayness  for  a  fluid. 

''Water!  It's  water!*'  he  croaked.  ** Round  my 
legs,  too/' 

He  nodded,  blinked,  and  relapsed  more  deeply  into 
stupor,  when  a  sudden  pang  of  meaning  crossed  his 
brain. 

**The  river's  over  your  sandbags,"  he  reproved 
himself  aloud.    **The  river's  climbin'  over." 

This  would  not  do.  He  stumbled  to  his  feet  and 
stared  about  him  vacantly.  There  were  no  more 
sandbags  anywhere  to  be  found  in  that  trampled 
gloom. 

"Don't  run  away!"  came  Jimmy's  warning  again, 
like  the  words  of  a  stern  angel. 

He  remembered  having  fallen  over  some  strips  of 
wood  near  the  diggers'  mudhole.  Sliding  and  creep- 
ing on  all  fours,  he  found  the  place  again — partly  by 
sense  of  touch,  partly  by  the  glimmer  of  dawn  upon 
wet  boards.  With  numb  fingers  he  chose  a  scantling, 
tugged  from  the  inward  mess  of  his  clothes  a  pocket- 
knife,  knelt  down  in  a  pond,  and  managed  to  whittle 
a  few  pegs. 

His  last  conscious  act — if,  indeed,  he  were  not 
dreaming  again — seemed  hopelessly  involved  with  a 
board  to  be  propped  up  edgewise  on  the  rampart, 
pegs  to  be  driven,  a  last  forlorn  kind  of  dam  with 
which  to  oppose  the  deluge. 


BOLDERO  277 

*'  *Stay  with  it/  says  Jimmy/'  croaked  his  guar- 
dian angel  somewhere  in  the  rain.  **Bet  your  neck, 
old  man !    You  bet  your  neck ! ' ' 

Driving  the  last  peg,  he  felt  the  wooden  block  with 
which  he  hammered  fly  from  his  parboiled  hands.  He 
toppled  over  the  scantling  edge,  and,  face  under  wa- 
ter, heard  the  world  pass  derisively  away  in  a  roar. 


VI 


He  woke  in  his  old  bed  under  the  bundles  of  dry 
Chinese  herbs,  with  their  medicinal  fragrance  fill- 
ing the  room,  though  tempered  by  mild  fresh  air. 
His  window  opened  on  a  heavenly  blue  expanse  of 
sunlight,  a  boundless  warmth  of  spring,  in  which 
he  heard  sparrows  fighting  and  now  and  again  the 
solemn  quack  of  Mandarin  ducks. 

* '  Bad  dreams ! ' '  he  muttered.  * '  I  certainly  dreamt 
some  powerful  bad  notions. '' 

With  that,  trying  to  stretch,  Boldero  felt  his  arms 
and  legs  refuse  their  function  and  dissolve  in  a 
weightless  inertia. 

**Been  sick,''  he  reasoned,  aloud. 

*'Yes;  but  you're  well  now,"  replied  a  voice. 

Mr.  Weechurch,  in  his  old  monastic  gown,  sat 
bending  over  a  table  near  by.  He  waggled  a  long 
paintbrush,  and  seemed  to  be  coloring  a  picture  of 
flowers  on  Bristol  board. 

**You're  right  enough  now,"  he  repeated,  smiling 
across  his  work.    *'What  was  it?" 

278 


BOLDERO  279 

Boldero  considered  the  few  muddled  remnants  of 
his  nightmare. 
I     *' Water  on  the  brain,   guess   I   had/'    And  he 
laughed. 

Mr.  Weechurch's  dry  old  face  grew  wrinkled  with 
satirical  kindness. 
I  *'A  sop  you  were  when  they  found  you/'  he  said, 
as  he  gathered  up  his  paint  box,  his  picture,  brushes, 
and  glass  of  many-colored  water.  **Now  you  go 
back  to  sleep  again  like  a  good  patient.  1 11  fetch 
you  some  very  high-class  lunch  about  noon.  Go  on! 
Fais  dodo/' 

He  tiptoed  away  to  the  door. 

**0h,  me!"  sighed  Boldero,  relaxing  into  a  vast 
and  comfortable  weakness.  ''Seems  it  was  true; 
seems  I  been  the  goat  again.'' 

Jimmy,  departing,  paused  for  a  moment  in  the 
corridor — a  brown  hermit  who  grinned  from  a  frame 
of  darkness. 

*'You  haven't  seen  the  newspapers,"  he  declared 
mysteriously.  **Drop  off,  my  young  friend;  culti- 
vate the  hay;  or  else  I  sha'n't  fetch  you  anything  to 
eat." 

When  Boldero  roused  again  from  a  delicious  nap 
the  afternoon  sun  slanted  through  his  window,  and 
two  men  stood  regarding  him  in  his  bed.  One  man 
was  Jimmy,  his  thumbs  under  his  monkish  girdle, 
his  eyes  twinkling  with  satisfaction ;  the  other  man,  a 


280  BOLDERO 

grave  Chinese  elder,  who  wore  a  blue  silken  jacket  and 
carried  a  tray. 

**I  hop'  you  betto/'  squeaked  the  Chinaman  in  a 
quavering  treble.  *^You  not  makee  die  now.  You 
all  lite,  guess.  Eat  'em  some  somezing,  chinchee  yo' 
blood,  welly  goo'.'' 

It  might  have  been  only  their  kindness,  yet  Bolder© 
fancied  both  men  regarded  him  with  warmth  and 
liking.  While  he  sat  up  to  eat  hungrily  of  strange 
but  excellent  food,  they  both  watched  him  as  in  a 
conspiracy  of  approval. 

**  'Twill  do  you  good,  that  aweto  soup,"  said  Jim- 
my, ''though  you  don't  know  what  an  aweto  is. 
Perhaps  because  you  don't.  Leung  She  understands 
how  to  cook,  I  believe." 

''Mmh!"  replied  Boldero,  enraptured  and  glutton- 
ous. While  he  ate  he  caught  sight  of  himself  mir- 
rored in  the  metal  cover  of  a  dish.  ''Hello!"  he 
groaned.    "Who  put  that  kind  of  a  head  on  me?" 

His  reflected  likeness  wore  a  scrub  of  orange-tawny 
beard,  had  sunken  eyes,  and  was  turbaned  with  a 
white  bandage.  He  groaned  again,  beginning  to  re- 
call the  reason  for  this  change. 

"How  do  you  get  about?"  he  asked. 

Mr.  Weechurch  frowned. 

"Get  about?  There,  there!  Don't  fret  yourself 
with  fancies.     Everything's  quite  all  right." 

"Get    round,    I    mean,"    persisted   the    invalid; 


BOLDERO  281 

*' round  the  streets.  This  town's  under  water,  ain't 
sher' 

*'No;  she  ain't,'*  retorted  Weechurch  promptly. 
"Dry  as  the  back  of  your  hand." 

The  old  Chinaman  burst  into  a  cackling  laugh. 

"He  no  sabe!"  Leung  She's  silk- wadded  body 
shook  with  merriment.  "Hai-yahl  He  fo'get  an 
he  head!" 

"You  sha'n't  inveigle  us  into  talking  with  you  at 
present, ' '  declared  Jimmy.  *  *  You  've  had  a  bad  week 
— cold,  exhaustion,  lack  of  blood.  Thought  we  were 
going  to  lose  our  man,  one  while.    Now  you  just  eat." 

"Eat,  thasaw!"  crowed  Leung  She.  "He  welly 
goo'  boy.  Bimeby  plenty  stlong,  alio  same  bull-cow. 
Welly  smaht  boy.    Eat  large  food,  thasaw!" 

Boldero  obeyed  them  and  ate,  laughing  weakly, 
for  he  felt  anything  but  like  a  bull-cow. 

Not  until  three  or  four  days  afterward  did  he  learn 
the  history  of  this  gap  in  his  life.  Then,  sitting  in 
Jimmy's  room,  with  his  head  bandage  off,  a  pipe  to 
smoke,  and  the  song  of  a  meadow  lark  from  beyond 
the  sunny  mist  of  willow  buds  on  the  South  Levee, 
he  pieced  things  together;  not  quickly,  but  little  by 
little,  for  sometimes  his  questions  got  a  reply,  some- 
times none. 

Jimmy  wrote  for  hours  every  day,  it  appeared,  as 
he  was  writing  now, — ^with  a  huge  pencil  upon  brown 
paper  sheets  piled  a  foot  high.    "A  Chinese  Herbal; 


282  BOLDERO 

or,  Certain  Neglected  Aspects  of  an  Old  System'* 
was,  he  admitted,  the  title  of  his  labors.  He  scrib- 
bled manfully,  covered  page  after  page  with  a  large, 
clear  handwriting,  and  seldom  glanced  off  his  work. 

''Who  found  meV  asked  Boldero. 

''Several  men/' 

"Howr' 

"With  your  head  in  the  river, '*  snorted  the  herb- 
alist. "About  daybreak.  Picked  you  out  for  a 
drowned  puppy.    Carried  you  home  in  a  wagon. ' ' 

He  wrote  half  a  sheet,  then  added : 

"Thought  you  were  dead,  myself,  when  I  saw  you." 

Boldero  waited  till  the  sheet  was  written. 

"But  the  levee  busted.'' 

Mr.  Weechurch  sharpened  his  pencil  with  a  clasp 
knife  that  seemed  larger  than  his  whole  person. 

"No!  Never  a  bust.  Safe  as  the  Bank  of  Eng- 
land!" 

"What  happened?" 

The  author  stabbed  knife  into  the  table,  turned  his 
brown  page,  and  drove  the  pencil  with  reckless  energy. 

"You'll  hear  all  that  to-morrow  evening,"  he 
grunted  over  his  shoulder.  "Wait  till  I  finish  this 
bit  about  fumitory  and  glandular  disease." 

Nothing  more  would  he  vouchsafe,  but  wrote  like  a 
machine.  The  Golden  Pig  lay  ticking  among  his 
manuscripts.  At  last  he  consulted  it,  rose,  unbound 
his  corded  girdle,  took  off  his  gown,  and  put  on 


BOLDERO       -  283 

the  worn  homespun  in  which  Boldero  first  had  seen 
him. 

**Four  o'clock.  Time  for  constitutional.  You  11 
find  plenty  of  books  in  the  cupboard  you  haven't  read. 
Go  on  getting  well,  for  to-morrow  I  shall  carry  you 
off  to  an  evening  party." 

With  that,  taking  an  old  penang-lawyer  for  walk- 
ing stick,  he  performed  a  sabre  salute  and  went  out, 
as  it  seemed  his  daily  habit  to  do  at  this  hour.  Bol- 
dero unearthed  a  book  and  read  until  twilight,  but 
with  many  pauses  to  revolve  the  questions  which  he 
had  not  asked  or  to  which  he  had  not  heard  the  an- 
swers. 

All  the  next  day  Mr.  Weechurch  labored  under 
visible  and  catching  excitement.  His  cheeks  were 
fiushed,  his  eyes  flighty,  his  manners  irritable.  That 
great  work,  the  Herbal,  lay  forgotten  while  he  fiddled 
about  the  room.  Leung  She,  who  brought  up  their 
lunch,  grinned  like  a  Chinese  earth  god  and  viewed 
Boldero  with  twinkling  almond  orbs. 

''All  lite  now,''  he  chanted.  ''That  boy  he  go 
catchee  Goo'  Lock.  My  can  see  one  piecee  Goo'  Lock 
on  he  face. ' ' 

Jimmy  shook  his  head  irascibly. 

"Not  on  that  face,"  he  objected;  "not  until  it's 
clean  shaven.  'Lord  worshipped  might  he  be,  what 
a  beard  hast  thou  got!    More  hair  on  thy  chin  than 


284  BOLDERO 

Dobbin  my  fill-horse  has  on  his  tail.'  Where  the 
devil's  my  shaving  tools  gone?" 

**In  Yo*  Honah'  boots-bok,"  said  Leung  She,  grin- 
ning still. 

Jimmy  flung  open  the  boot-box  and  fetched  from 
under  many  things  a  silver  brush,  a  silver  soap  case, 
a  strop,  bottles  of  luxurious  Corinthian  lotions,  and  a 
morocco  tray  of  Monday-Tuesday-Wednesday  razors. 

'*Take  those,''  he  ordered  peevishly;  ** apply  them 
to  your  cheeks,  and  break  the  stubborn  glebe.  I  want 
you  to  look  halfway  decent  at  my  party." 

Boldero  took  the  barber's  kit  and  the  unjust  re- 
buke with  equal  gratitude. 

''Thanks.  You  needn't  fret,  Jim,"  said  he.  '*I 
don't  no  more  enjoy  going  dirty  than  what  you  do." 

Mr.  Weechurch  suddenly  puffed  and  swelled  at  him 
like  a  turkey  gobbler.  For  the  first  time  in  their 
acquaintance  he  seemed  to  lose  his  temper. 

'*Look  here!"  he  cried.  ** Don't  you  give  back 
talk  to  your  seniors.  You  shave  off  that  horrid,  sick, 
bog-trotting,  luteous  beard ;  get  dressed,  and  be  ready 
at  eight  o'clock  sharp." 

This  appointed  hour  saw  Boldero  not  merely  ready 
but  in  a  high  state  of  expectation.  Dressing,  he  had 
found  his  old  clothes  neatly  restored — ^brushed,  mend- 
ed, and  smelling  warmly  of  Chinese  flatirons ;  also,  a 
new  shirt,  new  boots,  and  very  noble  neckwear,  lying 
on  his  bed,  with  a  card, '  *  J.  W.  's  Compliments. ' '    The 


I 


BOLDERO  285 

writer  of  that  card,  himself  appearing  vaguely  beau- 
tified and  twiddling  his  penang-lawyer,  surveyed  the 
general  result  with  a  sort  of  peevish  gloom. 

'*Tidy,  at  least/'  he  grunted,  and  led  the  way  down- 
stairs. 

Outdoors,  by  the  black  door  in  the  wall,  a  cab  stood 
waiting  with  lighted  lamps. 

*  *  Get  in, ' '  snapped  Jimmy ;  and  to  the  driver :  *  *  You 
know  where  to  go.'' 

They  trundled  through  the  darkness  of  the  Chinese 
Quarter,  round  several  turns,  into  a  bright  and 
crowded  street,  then  up  an  obscure  alley.  The  cab 
stopped  before  a  high,  blank  building,  like  a  deserted 
warehouse,  in  which  a  single  narrow  door  showed, 
lighted  by  a  jutting  lamp.  Weechurch,  who  had 
fretted  silently  all  the  way,  bundled  Boldero  out, 
through  this  door,  and  into  a  long,  bare  passage. 
Music,  chiefly  that  of  violins,  came  in  muffled  gusts 
from  somewhere  within. 

A  lame  man,  shuffling  down  the  corridor,  met  them 
as  though  they  were  expected,  and  without  a  word 
ushered  them  into  a  whitewashed  cell  that  contained 
two  chairs,  a  broken  box,  a  shelf,  and  over  the  shelf 
an  aged  yellow  bulb  casting  a  discouraged  light.  The 
lame  man  shut  the  door  and  was  gone. 

**Know  where  you  are?"  Jimmy  sat  down,  then 
erossed  his  arms  on  the  head  of  his  stick. 

"Theatre." 


286  BOLDERO 

''How  d 'you  know r' 

''The  smell." 

"Humph!''  said  Jimimy,  and  began  restlessly  tap- 
ping his  lawyer  on  the  floor. 

Minutes  went  by.  The  gusts  of  music  died  away; 
a  distant  murmuring  succeeded;  then  came  the 
crackle  of  applause;  then  silence.  Jimmy  continued 
to  fidget,  to  beat  his  devil's  tattoo. 

"We  in  here  for  life?"  asked  Boldero,  to  check 
the  growing  despondency. 

"Pull  your  cravat  straight!"  barked  his  mentor. 
"And,  whatever  they  say  or  do  to  you,  just  keep 
your  mouth  shut.  You'll  look  more  compact.  Bow 
or  not,  as  you  please." 

While  he  uttered  this  dark  counsel,  they  heard  the 
footsteps  of  the  lame  man,  who  drew  near  and  tapped 
at  the  door. 

"Go  with  him,"  Jimmy  ordered.  "I'll  meet  you 
in  the  cab  when  it's  over.  Go  where  that  man  takes 
you." 

Boldero,  with  a  rapidly  sinking  heart,  followed  his 
lame  guide  through  the  corridor,  which  grew  darker 
and  stuffier  as  they  advanced.  Suddenly  a  door 
opened,  disclosing  a  flight  of  stairs,  up  which  they 
mounted  into  a  huge,  dim,  drafty  vault  full  of  cord- 
age and  furniture,  gray  mounds  and  leaning  slats  of 
colored  scenery.  A  few  men  flitted  or  lounged  in 
this  limbo.    The  lame  one,  twitching  Boldero 's  arm, 


BOLDERO  287 

led  him  to  the  verge  of  a  brilliant  inner  space  and 
held  him  there,  tightly,  a  prisoner. 

They  looked  from  the  wings  upon  a  stage,  where, 
alone  in  a  gaudy  woodland,  a  little  orator  stood  ar- 
guing with  great  energy.  He  glanced  their  way, 
caught  sight  of  Boldero,  nodded,  grinned,  and  went 
on  speaking.  Though  he  no  longer  wore  glistening 
wet  rubber,  but  sober  evening  clothes,  his  face,  glow- 
ing above  the  footlights,  was  the  ruddy  face,  his  eyes 
were  the  ferret  eyes,  of  that  indefatigable  man,  the 
mayor. 

"So,  friends,^'  he  cried  in  conclusion,  **I^m 
glad  to  interrupt  the  show  long  enough  to  say  that 
we're  lucky  to  be  sitting  here  to-night.  Some  of  us 
came  mighty  near  being  nowhere  at  all.  We  owe  a 
heap  of  thanks  to  the  people  aforesaid  who  worked  so 
hard  to  save  our  lives  and  property ;  but,  most  of  all, 
we  owe  to  that  one  man.  We  won  our  fight  by  a  few 
minutes  and,  say,  a  couple  of  inches.  The  thing  was 
that  close,  ladies  and  gentlemen.  Well,  the  man  who 
made  it  possible  for  us  to  win,  to  be  sitting  here  to- 
night, as  I  say,  was  soul  alone,  hurt  bad,  a  stranger, 
with  nobody  on  hand  to  oversee  him  or  to  help.  He 
hung  on,  friends;  he  stayed  with  it.  I  want  you  to 
see  that  boy.  If  he'd  showed — er — shown  the  white 
feather " 

The  orator  lost  his  apodosis,  which  he  stood  fishing 
for  on  the  green  stage  carpet;  but  he  never  found 


288  BOLDERO 

it  there  or  elsewhere,  because  a  greax  salvo  of  heart- 
shaking  applause  drowned  his  confusion  and  filled  the 
vault  with  thunder. 

The  little  mayor  lifted  his  honest  round  face, 
laughed,  and  made  a  gesture  toward  the  wings.  The 
uproar  dwindled  to  a  dead  silence. 

'*Jack  What*s-your-name,  come  here!"  cried  the 
mayor.  **Give  us  a  look  at  you.  Come  here  to  me, 
you  boy." 

Jack's  blood  ran  cold;  but,  before  he  could  turn  to 
escape,  the  lame  man  shoved  him  violently  out  from 
the  painted  tree  trunks,  and  His  Honor  had  him  by 
the  wrist. 

'*Let  me  intro " 

A  roar  swept  all  the  rest  away.  Boldero,  with 
knees  unstrung,  looked  across  a  barrier  of  blazing 
lamps  and  saw  a  bottomless  black  concave  filled  with 
eyes,  long  foreheads,  women's  dresses,  and  row  upon 
row  of  hands  fluttering  like  birds  in  a  gale.  Before 
all  this  tumult,  centered  hot  upon  him,  the  flesh 
quailed  and  the  reason  took  flight. 

^'Lemme  go!"  he  stammered.    **Lemme  go!" 

The  mayor's  grip  was  a  handcuff. 

"Speak  to  'em.    They  like  you.    Speak  to  'em!" 

Boldero  moved  his  jaws  twice.  No  words  came. 
The  noise  had  ceased  and  left  another  waiting  still- 
ness, far  more  terrible.  His  throat  went  dry  as  a 
powderhorn. 


BOLDERO  289 

"Thank  you!'*  he  squeaked;  then,  turning  to  his 
captor:  **Lemme  go!"  he  implored.  **Jimray  told 
me  to  keep  my  mouth  shut.'* 

At  that  the  place  rocked  with  laughter.  While  he 
struggled  to  free  his  wrist,  Boldero  saw  a  man  jump 
up  in  the  black  pit  and  throw  something,  with  a  loud 
cry: 

'  *  You  're  all  right,  boy !    Chip  in !     Chip  in ! ' ' 

What  he  threw  came  flying  over  the  footlights  to 
jingle  on  the  stage ;  other  cries  answered,  with  whistles 
and  catcalls  from  aloft;  the  blackness  above  the  daz- 
zling barrier  became  thick  with  showers  of  money. 
One  coin  hit  Boldero  on  his  wounded  forehead,  a 
crack  that  left  him  dizzy;  he  tore  himself  loose  and 
ran;  laughter  pursued  him  down  the  stairs  and  cor- 
ridor. 

He  stumbled  through  the  lighted  door  into  the 
alley,  thinking  only  of  freedom.  There  stood  the  vil- 
lainous cab,  with  its  door  open,  and  Jimmy  watching 
from  inside  like  a  hawk  in  a  padded  cage. 

"Welir*  said  Jimmy.    'Tlimb  aboard.'' 

Boldero  could  not  bring  himself  to  enter.  This  man 
had  dealt  treacherously. 

*  *  Come !  Tell  us  about  it. ' '  And  Jimmy,  catching 
his  sleeve,  pulled  him  into  the  cab.  **What  hap- 
pened?" 

Boldero  fell  blindly  on  the  seat.  His  companion 
waited,  but  he  would  not  reply.    Presently  they  saw 


290  BOLDERO 

the  lame  doorkeeper  come  stumping  out,  cross  the 
narrow  pavement,  and  lean  toward  them.  He  car- 
ried a  pasteboard  box. 

''Don't  forget  your  testimonial,  sir,'*  urged  the 
lame  man.  ** Here's  the — your  purse  the  audience 
made  up  for  you.  It  come  kind  of  a  surprise,  didn't 
it?    Guess  you  don't  read  the  papers." 

Jimmy  reached  out  and  took  the  tribute  into  his 
lap. 

**Many  thanks."  He  drew  from  the  box  a  fistful 
of  coins,  which  he  bestowed  on  the  lame  man.  **For 
you,  my  friend.     Good  night!" 

The  cab  was  rumbling  among  the  Chinese  shops  be- 
fore Boldero  could  find  words  to  convey  his  bitterness. 

'* Jimmy,"  he  shouted,  *'I  never  thought  you'd  do 
that — ^take  a  man  there  to  be  made  a  fool  of,  in  public ! 
You  know  I  never  did  anything,  Jimmy;  not  one 
thing.    It  ain't  right " 

Mr.  Weechurch's  hand  gave  him  a  slap  on  the  knee. 
Mr.  Weechurch's  laughter,  not  dubious  now,  re- 
sounded merrily  in  their  dark  confinement. 

*' John,  I  love  you  like  a  son,"  cried  Mr.  Weechurch. 
**  You  know  the  false  taste  of  glory,  which  few  of  'em 
can  say." 

Boldero  understood  him  less  than  ever,  but  the 
words  and  the  manner  restored  their  friendship. 
Somehow,  after  all,  there  had  been  no  treachery. 

"You're  going  to  work  for  me  after  this,"  declared 


BOLDERO  291 

his  friend.  **John,  I  could  trust  you  with  Golconda! 
We've  got  a  job  ahead,  dear  boy,  that  will  make  you 
open  your  eyes  and  keep  them  open.'* 

So  saying,  he  unlatched  the  door  of  the  cab.    They 
had  come  home  to  the  black  postern  in  the  wall. 


VII 


"How  shall  you  lay  out  your  fortune T'  A 
fortnight  after  Boldero's  public  fiasco,  they  were 
lounging  in  the  sun  beneath  the  only  eminence  in 
a  flat  landscape.  It  was  part  of  the  levee,  a  vivid 
green  bank  pied  with  new  flowers, — ^harsh  tansy- 
orange  poppies,  mallows  with  pink  bells  quivering. 
Spring,  the  hushed  warmth  of  an  April  afternoon, 
brooded  over  the  world  and  made  all  things  doze. 
Jimmy  sat  smoking  a  briar  pipe,  looking  beyond  the 
green  waste  fields  toward  a  cottonwood  and  willow 
grove,  across  whose  lower  branches  a  stripe  of  dried 
clay,  putty-colored,  and  wisps  of  dead  grass  hanging 
frowsily,  marked  the  vanished  flood.  Jimmy's  white 
bullet  head  was  bare,  his  leathern  face  twisted  into 
a  comical  gnarl  of  thought. 

"How  lay  out  your  fortune?  A  neat  round  sum 
the  grateful  city  gave  its  hero." 

Boldero  lay  prone  on  the  slope,  chewing  a  leaf  of 
miner's  lettuce. 

"I  want  to  send  that  money  to  Victor  le  Retit. 
292 


1 


BOLDERO  293 

He's  a  French  baker.  His  little  girl,  Jeanne,  is  in 
the  hospital  for  a  long  time  to  come.** 

**Not  aU  of  itr*  said  Jimmy  lazily.  ''Half  is 
enough." 

**No,**  replied  the  herbivorous  and  stubborn  young 
man.    ''Half  ain't  enough — ^the  whole." 

Jimmy  thumbed  the  burnt  rim  of  his  briar. 

"Very  well,"  he  agreed.  "But  don't  expect  to 
save  a  city  every  day." 

"Oh,  quit  guying  me!"  growled  Boldero. 

The  older  man  went  on  smoking ;  under  their  puck- 
ered lids  his  eyes  twinkled  like  brown  glass.  In  the 
wet,  verdant  field  below,  myriads  of  young  frogs 
trilled  silvery  notes  and  gradually  fell  silent.  Back 
and  forth  across  one  field  trotted  a  pair  of  pale-blue 
figures.  Chinamen  balancing  their  twin  baskets  as 
they  went  about  the  ceaseless  labor  of  making  the 
waste  a  garden ;  whenever  they  stooped  near  a  thicket 
of  dark-green  rushes,  up  flew  like  sparks  and  cinders 
a  cloud  of  red-winged  blackbirds.  Far  off  above  the 
haze,  mountains  lifted  against  a  dreamy  sky  their 
overlapping  billows  of  snow.  A  meadow  lark  sang 
gloriously,  teetering  on  a  fence  wire. 

"You  promised  to  work  for  me,"  continued  Mr. 
"Weechurch.  "What  can  you  do?  I  mean.  Jack, 
what  can  you  do  best — ^better  than  most  men?" 

Boldero  finished  his  bite  of  wild  salad  and  lay 
thinking. 


294  BOLDERO 

'*I  can  run/'  he  answered  with  his  face  in  the 
grass.  **It's  about  the  only  thing;  it's  my  one  best 
holt.  I  never  made  nothing  of  it,  you  see;  but  I 
can  outrun  a  good  many  pro's.'' 

Jimmy  chuckled. 

*' That's  a  gift,"  said  he;  and,  again  smoking, 
watched  the  landscape  in  which,  for  him,  the  voices 
of  spring  were  dumb.  After  a  time  he  roused. 
**What  I  shall  hire  you  to  do,  my  boy,  is  this." 

Rolling  over  on  his  back,  Boldero  stared  at  the  sky 
and  waited.  His  face,  browned  by  many  such  days 
of  outdoor  loafing,  shone  with  cheerful  health. 

* '  First,  about  myself, ' '  began  Jimmy.  * '  You  're  too 
polite  to  ask  me  questions,  therefore  I  '11  tell  you.  In 
a  humble  way  I'm  what  grander  folk  would  call  an 
Orientalist.  Understand  what  that  means?  You 
needn't  open  your  eyes  so  wide,  for  I'm  not  the  Great 
White  Mahatma,  or  a  sinologue,  or  even  a  scholar; 
just  a  wandering,  botanical,  poor  old  pettifogging  col- 
lector. Among  other  trifles,  I  've  tried  to  learn  about 
Eastern  art.    Do  you  comprehend?    A-R-T,  eh?" 

Boldero  had  rolled  over  again  and,  with  chin  on 
elbows,  lay  watching  the  speaker  intently. 

'* Pictures."  He  nodded  like  a  sage.  ''Statues. 
I  know  all  that." 

Weechurch  seemed  to  enjoy  the  conversation. 

''Excellent  young  man,"  he  cried;  "formed  for  my 


BOLDERO  295 

very  purpose !  You  know  Art.  Well,  as  Boffin  would 
say,  do  you  like  it?*' 

''Sure  I  like  it!'*  declared  Boldero. 

His  employer  brought  forth  a  leathern  tobacco 
pouch  that  resembled  a  large  and  very  aged  mush- 
room. 

**Why,  then,"  he  drawled,  shoveling  round  and 
round  with  his  pipe  in  this  receptacle,  **then  you'll 
do.  I  want  you  to  go  to  a  certain  place  in  the  hills 
and  meet  a  friend  of  ours.    Understand?'' 

Boldero 's  blue  eyes  burned  with  eagerness. 

''Yes,  sir." 

*'This  friend  will  have  a  certain  Chinese  painting, 
an  extremely  old  Chinese  painting  on  silk.  Follow 
me?" 

'Yes,  sir." 

Jimmy  restored  the  mushroom  pouch  to  his  hip 
pocket,  and  continued: 

"You  will  take  this  painting  and  never  let  go  of 
it  until  you  have  brought  it  to  me.  But" — he  sud- 
denly threw  off  his  indolent  air,  sat  erect,  and  gave 
Boldero  a  look  that  went  through  him  like  a  wimble — 
"but  you  will  not  say  one  word  concerning  this  to 
anybody  except  me  and  our  friend.    Not  a  word." 

Boldero,  wholly  absorbed,  crossed  his  throat  and 
spat  on  his  thumb. 

"There's  my  oath,  Jimmy,"  he  urged,  with  ardor. 

Jimmy  had  grown  deadly  serious. 


296  BOLDERO 

"Certain  other  collectors,"  he  went  on,  choosing 
the  words  carefully,  *Vould  pay  many  thousand 
pounds  to  obtain  this  painting  by  any  means  what- 
ever. Understand?  Whatever!  I  can't  give  you 
more  than  a  hundred  or  so ;  and  you  must  guard  the 
thing  upon  your  honor,  just  as  you  guarded,  the  other 
night,  this  bank  of  earth  behind  us.  The  painting,  a 
scroll,  a  Tsou  SJiou  of  the  Five  Dynasties,  js  about  one 
thousand  years  old.  I  must  have  it.  I — me — no  one 
else.  Youll  undertake  the  job?  Yes?  Good!  While 
bringing  it  back  here  to  me  you  may  have  to  travel 
on  foot,  avoid  all  towns,  railways,  and  highroads. 
That  shall  be  as  you  and  our  friend  may  decide  best. 
Will  you  do  that  also?" 

''Like  a  duck!" 

Boldero  began  eating  another  leaf  of  miner's  let- 
tuce, not  from  hunger  but  excitement.  This  game,  he 
foresaw,  would  be  great  fun. 

*'Not  too  fast!"  warned  his  friend.  '* Don't  rush 
into  this  blindfold.  I  tell  you  plainly  it  may  be 
dangerous.  You'll  have  to  go  through  thick  or  thin 
for  a  hundred  pounds — ^five  hundred  dollars,  and 
you'll  earn  every  penny  of  your  hire."  ] 

''Sure  I  will!"  cried  Boldero,  and  sat  up,  thought- 
ful and  ready.  He  looked  like  a  sunburnt  Mercury 
Resting,  in  old  clothes.  "Many  thousands  o'  pounds? 
Golly!  That  picture  must  be  big  as  all  outdoors. 
How '11  I  carry  it?" 


BOLDERO  297 

Jimmy  laughed. 

**In  your  inside  pocket/'  he  replied.  **It  makes  a 
roll  no  longer  than  your  forearm  and  no  thicker.'* 

The  young  Mercury  scowled. 

** Sounds  kind  o'  fishy/'  he  objected.  ''A  little 
thing  like  that  ?    What 's  painted  on  it  r ' 

'*A  picture  of  three  cows,"  said  Jimmy.  ** That's 
all,  bar  inscription.  But  those  three  cows  hung  in  the 
bedroom  of  many  emperors,  and  were  admired  by  the 
Son  of  Heaven." 

Giving  this  strange  information  offhand,  he  rose, 
stretched  his  arms  and  legs,  clapped  his  hat  on,  then 
proposed  a  walk  before  returning  home.  As  they 
rambled  on  their  way  he  talked  a  great  deal,  but  of  in- 
different matters ;  and  during  their  many  halts  he  re- 
mained lost  in  contemplation  of  the  pale  green  valley 
floor,  which  stretched  mile  up.on  mile,  palpitating  with 
stillness,  warmth,  and  the  sense  of  growing  things — a 
panorama  of  spring  inclosed,  far  off,  by  snow  peaks 
and  the  misty  blue  of  mountain  air.  The  larks  and 
the  frogs  made  an  undercurrent  of  music  fitfully,  to 
which  the  deaf  man  seemed  listening.  Then  he  moved 
onward,  with  Boldero  following  him  along  the 
narrow  path  that  curved  slowly  between  fields  and 
sultry  market  gardens  toward  the  spires  of  the  town. 

Nearing  home,  Mr.  Weechurch  paused  again,  this 
time  above  the  southern  facade  of  the  joss  house.  The 
sun  blazed  hot  upon  the  old  gilding  and  faded  red 


298  BOLDERO 

tablets  of  this  dingy  temple,  and  into  its  door,  which 
stood  open,  as  always,  fronting  a  bank  of  weeds. 

** Let's  drop  in  a  moment, '^  said  Jimmy.  And  he 
went  down  the  seldom-trodden  path  to  the  steps  of  the 
temple.    "Leung  She  may  be  inside  here.'' 

From  sunshine  they  entered  a  blinding  darkness  and 
the  thick,  sweet  odor  of  burning  punk.  For  a  time 
nothing  was  visible  but  the  diagonal  shaft  of  bluish 
smoke,  in  the  doorway  behind,  and  before  them  a 
wavering  bead  of  flame;  then  gradually,  as  they 
waited,  there  trembled  out  from  the  surrounding  dusk 
a  concourse  of  tinsel  banners,  scarlet-hafted  halberds 
with  silver-gilt  heads,  baskets  of  dusty  paper  flowers, 
and  on  the  altar  a  trinity  of  motionless  gods,  forever 
meditating. 

**Not  here,"  delared  Jimmy  in  a  lowered  voice. 

Boldero,  seeing  him  remove  his  hat,  did  likewise, 
and  felt  ashamed  to  remember  the  contempt  with 
which  he  himself  had  formerly  viewed  these  things. 
It  was  a  kind  of  church  after  all. 

''Leung  She?"  said  Jimmy,  aloud.  ''No;  he's  not 
here." 

But  while  he  spoke  a  black  shadow  came  shuffling 
from  some  inner  door  and  approached  them.  The  tiny 
altar  lamp,  that  yellow  bead  of  flame,  shuddered  in 
its  cracked  tumbler  at  the  breath  of  its  guardian's 
passage.  Leung  She — cook,  janitor  and  priest — 
nodded  and  smiled  upon  his  visitors. 


BOLDERO  299 

"How  toof  said  Leung  She  amiably. 

**You  remember  this  boy  T'  inquired  Jimmy. 

Leung  She's  moon  face  expressed  nothing  but  gen- 
eral intelligence. 

'*Shoe;  I  know  nm,"  he  declared.  **He  you 
pardno;  catchee  Goo'  Lock,  I  hop'  so." 

**I  hope  the  same,"  replied  Jimmy;  and  then,  in  a 
language  Boldero  could  not  understand,  he  spoke  at 
some  length,  motionless,  with  folded  hands,  while 
Leung  She  listened,  his  wide  pointed  eyes  blinking 
assent.  '^This  boy,"  Jimmy  concluded,  **he  my 
friend,  my  partner  now.  You  treat  him  all  same  me, 
every  time." 

**Shoe!"  said  the  priest. 

There  followed  more  unintelligible  talk.  Yet  Bol- 
dero caught  the  drift  and  tone  of  it.  This  ghostly 
darkness,  where  at  one  step  from  living  sunlight  they 
had  passed  among  the  spirits  of  the  dead,  was  a 
friendly  place. 

**Aw  lite!"  said  Leung  She. 

**A11  right!"  Mr.  Weechurch  echoed.  '*John,  if 
ever  you  need  another  friend  come  to  this  China- 
man." 

They  moved  out  into  the  blinding  noon,  and  so 
home  to  Jimmy's  black  door  in  the  tile-capped  wall. 

Thirty-six  hours  later  Boldero  was  traveling  north- 
ward on  a  midnight  train.  He  knew  his  instructions ; 
but,  as  he  dozed  uncomfortably  on  a  red  plush  chair 


300  BOLDERO 

and  listened  to  the  half -drunken  songs  or  dingy  love- 
making  of  his  fellow  passengers,  he  tried  to  become 
letter-perfect.  The  affair  should  be  simple  enough. 
He  was  to  leave  the  train  at  Hunter  Landing,  go 
westerly  as  far  as  Yellowhead's  Flat,  and  there  in- 
quire for  the  Cash  on  Hand,  a  barroom  kept  by  one 
Dalrymple. 

He  revolved  these  directions  thoroughly;  at  dawn, 
in  a  cold  blue  mist,  followed  them ;  and  so,  after  sun- 
rise, came  lugging  his  blanket  roll  into  a  village  of  old 
cabins,  all  asleep,  which  looked  with  blind,  glittering 
windows  down  a  steep  gully  of  white-oak  and  bay 
trees.  Not  a  creature  stirred  in  the  muddy  red  street ; 
but  there  was  no  need  to  put  questions,  for  he  per- 
ceived at  the  uphill  end  of  the  village  a  brick  hovel, 
leaning  badly  out  of  plumb,  which  bore  on  its  front 
the  half-obliterated  sign:  **. . .  Express  .  .  .  Gold  Dust 
Bought  Here;''  and  over  this  palimpsest  of  placer 
days  a  white  board,  proclaiming  in  black  letters : 

THE  CASH  ON  HAND       - 
First  and  Last  Chance 
C.  Dalrymple 

Boldero  walked  up  to  its  crazy  veranda  and  opened 
the  door.  Inside,  a  low  brown-boarded  room  con- 
tained rows  of  bottles  behind  a  counter,  three  or  four 
chairs,  a  card  table,  and  the  giddy  clockface  of  a 


BOLDERO  301 

wheel  of  fortune.  He  rapped  with  a  dollar  on  the  bar. 
After  waiting  a  long  time,  he  rapped  again.  The  echo 
gummoned  at  last  from  within  a  sound  of  boots;  a 
door  opened,  and  a  paunchy  but  brisk  red-haired  man 
slid  behind  the  counter. 

''What '11  you  have?"  he  asked,  with  a  tired  pro- 
fessionalism. 

**Are  you  Cassius  Dalrymple?" 

''Bet  you!" 

'*Are  you  Cash  on  Hand?" 

"And  some  in  pocket." 

'*Then  I'm  a  friend  of  Jimmy  Weechurch" — Bol- 
dero  recited  his  orders — ^**  looking  to  meet  a  fellow 
from  the  North." 

Mr.  Cassius  Dalrymple  lost  his  cynicism,  brushed 
his  red  hair  all  on  end  from  his  forehead,  and  stared. 

*'Are  you  the  boy  that  Injun's  askin'  about?"  he 
cried.  ** Well,  say,  you  been  expected!  Have  a  touch 
to  open  the  day?  No?  All  right!  You  go  straight 
on  up  the  gulch  till  you  hit  his  cabin.  It's  the  only 
buildin'  there;  can't  miss  it.  Same  to  you,  and  many 
of  'em!" 

Boldero  went  out  and  up  a  narrowing  path  among 
the  bay  trees  whose  tops  already  began  to  sparkle  in 
the  sun.  He  thought  a  good  deal,  for  his  way  seemed 
curiously  prepared  before  him. 

*'This  Jimmy,"  he  reflected,  *'is  some  man  after 
all,  and  wide  known." 


302  BOLDERO  ' 

Where  morning  mist  lingered  and  drifted  down- 
hill, the  path  ended,  and  he  came  to  a  dark  board-and- 
batten  dwelling  in  a  clump  of  madrona.  Smoke  rose 
from  its  rusty  chimney  pipe  through  the  peeled  and 
spotted  branches.     He  heard  a  stove  lid  clattering. 

*^  Wonder  who  my  next  friend  isV 

The  cabin  door,  a  flimsy  piece  of  old  carpenter 
work,  swung  inward  at  his  knocking. 

'*Kya!''  snarled  a  voice  that  made  him  jump. 

The  cabin  swam  full  of  smoke  and  pungent  cook- 
ery.  Through  the  reek  a  man  came  toward  him  with 
carving  knife  in  hand,  as  if  ready  to  fight.  A  pair  of 
black  eyes  outstared  him. 

**Ho-ho!    The  boy!'*  cried  this  man,  lowering  his    | 
knife.     **You  are  the  boy!*'     He  drew  aside  cour- 
teously and  pulled  the  cabin  door  wide  open.    ' '  Come 
in.  Jack ;  come  in !    I  having  plenty  breakfast  for  two. 
You  are  on  good  time.'* 

The  speaker  wore  a  turban  of  faded  pink  cotton 
and  was  wrapped  to  his  ears  in  an  old  army  serge 
overcoat.    His  face,  grinning  mildly  through  smoke,     | 
was  the  light-brown  face  of  Ghanda  Singh.  1 


VIII 

The  Sikh  repeated  his  courteous  motion.  ''Come 
in!    Sit,  and  eaf 

Retreating  to  the  stove — an  iron  barrel  red  with 
rust,  so  cracked  that  fire  showed  every  joint  between 
the  plates — ^he  took  a  forked  bay  stick  and  stirred  the 
bottom  of  a  steaming  kettle.  Boldero  sat  on  a  box 
and  awaited  further  orders.  Presently  Ghanda  Singh 
poured  from  the  kettle  a  great  mess  of  vegetables  into 
a  tin  basin,  which  he  laid  in  Boldero 's  lap. 

'  *  There,  boy.  * '  He  brought  an  old  tin  spoon.  * '  Fill 
your  ee-stomach.'' 

So  saying,  he  went  outdoors  to  pace  up  and  down 
the  path,  and  leave  his  guest  in  privacy.  He  had  not 
long  to  wait.*  His  mustard-yellow  overcoat  and  pink 
turban  passed  hardly  a  dozen  times  through  the  morn- 
ing mist,  into  which  the  cabin  smoke  poured  and 
mingled,  when  Boldero  called  out  to  say  his  breakfast 
was  gone. 

**You  have  eat  enough?'^  asked  Ghanda  Singh,  en- 
tering. 

303 


304  BOLDERO 

''Great!'*  sighed  Boldero,  and  wanned  himself  by 
the  stove.    ''Thank  ye/' 

"Good!    Now  I  ask :  Are  you  the  boy ?' ' 

"What?" 

' '  The  right  boy  to  come — ^not  the  wrong  boy  ?  How 
I  do  know.    Talk.'' 

A  glance  from  soft  Indian  eyes  told  Boldero  that 
proof  was  needed. 

"I  came  a-traveling  direct  from  Jimmy.  He  sent 
me  yesterday  afternoon. ' ' 

Still  those  brown  eyes  betrayed  a  glimmer  of 
doubt. 

"You  call  him  that?  "Who  is  he?  Who  are  your 
Jimmy  and  you?" 

Laying  his  tin  basin  empty  on  the  floor,  Boldero 
declared  his  instructions. 

"Mr.  Weechurch,  then;  he  wanted  me  to  come  get 
it.  He's  a  deaf  man  who  lives  at  the  Black  Door  in 
the  Wall,  and  wears  a  gold  watch  with  a  pig's  head 
carved  on  it.  He's  keeping  your  war  medals  for  you. 
I  saw  you  leave  them. ' ' 

Ghanda  Singh  laughed  a  pantomime  of  a  laugh  and 
rubbed  his  slender  hands  thoughtfully  above  the 
steaming  kettle. 

* '  Good !    What  is  i1>-the  thing  he  wanted  ? ' ' 

"A  picture,"  said  Boldero,  "of  three  cows." 

The  Sikh  removed  his  kettle  from  the  stove  hole, 
threw  in  some  billets  of  dry  laurel,  and  watched  them 


BOLDERO  305 

bum,  while  curving  flames  reached  up  toward  him  and 
an  odor  like  that  of  lemon  peel  mingled  with  the  smoke 
in  the  room. 

*'A11  true,''  said  he.  Replacing  the  lid,  he  dragged 
from  behind  the  stove  a  white-oak  chopping  block  and 
sat  down  upon  its  spongy  head.  **You  are  the  right 
messenger.*' 

** Don't  know  about  that;  but  Jimmy  told  me  to 
come  fetch  him  his  picture." 

Ghanda  Singh  stroked  his  brown  cheeks. 

**My  master  knows  best,"  he  admitted;  then,  with 
a  smile  at  once  crafty  and  gentle,  a  rare  smile  that 
bore  out  his  words:  **You  and  me,"  declared  Ghanda 
Singh,  **we  are  friends." 

For  a  while  they  sat,  with  the  stove  and  this  agree- 
ment between  them.  Outside  their  cabin  door  a  bluish 
light  cleft  the  gorge,  a  tissue  of  vapor  and  sunshine, 
a  veil  of  illusion  beyond  which  the  mountain  spurs 
ran  their  long  gray-green  beaks  down  in  parallel  se- 
ries toward  the  hidden  plain. 

**Have  you  got  it?"  asked  Boldero,  breaking  a  long 
silence. 

**No,"  replied  Ghanda  Singh. 

Huddled  in  his  greatcoat,  he  sat  warming  his  thin 
hands  by  the  stove.  His  brown  eyes  dreamed  of 
something  far  away.  It  seemed  he  might  wait  thus 
for  hours,  when,  without  changing  look  or  posture,  he 
began  to  think  aloud. 


I 


306  BOLDERO 

''No.  Ramdayal  is  bringing  it  here.'*  He  spoke 
as  quietly  as  the  crackle  of  the  fire.  ' '  A  long  journey- 
going,  those  Three  Cows.  Some  man  he  loot  them 
from  the  great  Peking  Palace,  how  many  years  ago. 
A  German  soldier  gave  it  to  somebody  for  a  bottle  of 
beer.  Then  no  more  heard  of  it ;  maybe  at  Tientsin ; 
maybe  Wei-hai-wei — ^who  knows?  Then,  long  after, 
in  Shanghai,  a  Russian  sailor  from  aboard  Askold  sat 
up  dead  on  a  ricksha,  all  alone — dead,  but  very 
straight — in  a  snowstorm  before  morning  light  at 
Hongkew  Bund.  They  never  finding  his  coolie.  Per- 
haps the  Askold  man  dead  of  drink.  But  that  coolie — 
I  know  how — he  sold  it  to  French  barber  for  ten  dol- 
lars and  one  bag  Duck-Lily  flour.  The  barber  talked 
much.    Stolen  again.    Gone ! ' ' 

Ghanda  Singh  mused  for  a  while,  tucking  folds  in 
his  pink  cotton  turban  with  neat,  unconscious,  femi- 
nine touches. 

*'Next  a  bank  clerk,  Ee-Scotch;  he  hang  it  up  in 
messroom  of  his  chummery.  One  night,  some  boy 
missing,  the  picture  gone.  Always  gone;  always 
change  the  hands.  Too  long  to  tell.''  The  Sikh 
sighed.  * '  Too  long ;  too  many.  Just  now  I  heard  that 
a  man  was  carrying  the  Three  Cows  aboard  one  ship ; 
a  ship  nobody  coming  landed  from.  No.  But  off 
that  ship  Ramdayal  is  bringing  it  to  me,  here." 

The  Sikh  rose,  went  to  the  door  and,  leaning  out, 
stared  down  the  bushy  hill  track.    His  gaunt  figure, 


BOLDERO  307 

against  the  bluish  curtain  of  morning  light,  remained 
like  a  statue.  His  frowning  eyes  waited  for  Ramdayal 
to  appear.  Boldero  felt  a  curious  expectancy,  a  long- 
ing to  know  what  man  or  what  thing  could  be  so  late 
in  arriving  from  the  ends  of  the  earth.  Ghanda 
Singh,  however,  dropped  one  hand  to  signify  that 
nobody  was  in  view,  and,  without  impatience,  came 
lounging  in  to  wait  once  more  on  the  splintered  cush- 
ion of  the  chopping  block. 

"Who's  the  man  coming?'*  said  Boldero. 

" Ramdayal, '*  sighed  his  quiet  companion.  "A 
brother  of  the  Khalsa.  He  was  to  come  yesterday,  but 
he  is  late;  quait  late. — Ramdayal  and  I,  at  home,  we 
go  together  to  the  Akal  Bungah,  and  there  at  one 
same  time  the  priest  taken  for  us  the  vessels  from  the 
Golden  Ark.  Ramdayal  is  my  twin  among  the  elect. 
You  do  not  understand.  No.  It  is  too  long;  too 
many ;  too  old.    You  are  young  man. ' ' 

Boldero,  if  repulsed,  never  knew  it. 

*' What '11  we  do,"  said  he,  trying  again,  "when 
your  brother  does  come?" 

Ghanda  Singh  studied  the  cabin  rafters,  which, 
through  the  smoke,  leaned  broken  apart  with  fallen 
ends  that  bristled  full  of  nails  like  claws  wrenched 
loose. 

* '  We  must  go  then, ' '  he  replied  thoughtfully.  ' '  We 
must  carry  the  picture  home.  Some  man  will  stop  us 
going  if  he  can.    We  must  run  the  faster  than  him. 


308  BOLDERO 

using  more  brain  inside  our  heads.  You,  me,  Ram- 
dayal,  we  having  more  brain.  He  is  a  tall  man,  large 
nose,  bad  eyes,  and  three  fingers  gone  ojff  his  right 
hand.'' 

These  words,  uttered  in  soliloquy,  made  Boldero 
start  up  and  look;  for  he  recognized  the  mark  of  an 
old  acquaintance. 

''Middle  fingers  gone — that  wayT'  Boldero  held 
out  his  own  right  hand  with  only  thumb  and  little 
finger  displayed  erect.    ''So?*' 

*  *  Just  so, ' '  agreed  Ghanda  Singh  placidly.  * '  Where 
was  he?'' 

In  a  few  words  Boldero  told  how  the  two  vagrants, 
Pill-Hop  and  Fingers,  had  attempted  Jimmy's  life 
one  dismal  evening  by  a  river  bank. 

*'Yes."  The  Sikh  nodded,  but  continued  to  warm 
his  hands  without  concern.  **  Fingers  the  Miner,  that 
the  name.  He  before  tried  to  be  a  sailor ;  all  talk,  no 
work,  no  good  at  sea,  now  anything  ashore  like  that — 
miner,  mutwallah,  sore-nose.  The  kind  they  hire  to 
lay  dynamite  in  buildings  and  crowds,  then  running 
away,  blow  women  and  children  to  pieces.  Pah!" 
The  Sikh's  face  curled  into  a  light-brown  mask  of 
scorn,  then  became  placid  again.  ''This  country  full 
of  such,  God  knowing  why  they  are  not  all  in  jail- 
khana!    He  is  a  corpse-eating  dog  with  the  mange." 

Nodding  heartily,  Boldero  considered  this  informa- 
tion in  the  light  of  his  own  past ;  he  recalled  what  Fin- 


BOLDERO  309 

gers  the  Miner  had  said  while  Jimmy  sat  by  his  fire 
among  the  willows : 

*  *  *  He  carries  it  on  him  all  the  time. '  Ghanda,  your 
mangy  dog  thought  Jinrniy  carried  it.  Was  It  the 
picture?'' 

Ghanda  understood  at  once,  calmly. 

'  *  I  think  so, ' '  said  he.  *  *  They  running  ahead  of  the 
deer,  then.  Jimmy  never  saw  this  picture.  Now  they 
know  that,  they  know  better,  and  getting  behind  us, 
like  cheetahs  who  are  called  in  and  hooded  and  put  on 
again  to  the  game.  Oh,  yes  1  They  are  coming  down 
after  us.    Why  Ramdayal  is  late.'' 

Boldero  became  skeptical. 

''Those  three  cows,"  said  he,  *'must  give  a  lot  of 
milk  among  'em. ' ' 

**Yes;  worth  more  than  seven  lakhs,"  returned 
Ghanda  Singh.  **The  white  color  in  the  paint 
was  grinded  powder  of  pearl  dust;  the  picture  made 
by  a  queen,  she  die,  she  work  one  thousand  years 
ago,  in  the  lazy  days  when  people  made  pretty  thing 
to  last  and  be  good." 

A  noise  outside  the  cabin  disturbed  their  talk — a 
rush  of  leaves  parting  tumultuously.  Ghanda  Singh 
jumped  and  ran  for  the  door,  his  carving  knife  again 
held  so  ready  that  Boldero  made  after  him  with  a 
laurel  club.  They  saw  nothing  but  a  gray  streak  that 
overshot  the  path,  some  wildcat  or  mountain  lion  slip- 
ping like  quicksilver  down  along  boughs  into  a  leafy 


310  BOLDERO 

depth  of  manzanita  and  huckleberry.  The  beast, 
whatever  it  was,  vanished.  Again  the  mountain  gorge 
yawned  silent,  a  crease  of  rounded  greenery  among 
the  hills. 

They  returned  from  viewing  that  deep  solitude,  and 
once  more  squatted  by  the  stove  to  enjoy  all  the  heat 
it  could  give;  for  a  bitter,  bone-chilling  dampness 
breathed  up  the  glen  and  filled  their  cabin.  Ghanda 
Singh  hugged  his  old  army  serge  about  him  and  shiv- 
ered. 

**Well,  war  is  coming,*'  he  declared  after  a  time, 
like  a  man  who  found  mitigations  in  a  rough  life. 
"They  say  we  shall  have  war.'' 

*'Who  says  that?" 

*'Many  people,"  droned  Ghanda  Singh  moodily. 
"A  fat  man  with  a  white  face — not  a  sahib — who  sold 
beer  and  oil-tin  fishes  at  the  roalroad  near  Corinda- 
pur;  he  was  of  some  caste  that  hated  English  and 
Americans ;  his  little  crazy  gods  told  him  a  great  war 
is  coming  and  all  India  jump  out  of  bed  to  murder  the 
sahibs  overnight.  His  name  I  forgetting — Freundlich 
or  Geib,  like  that ;  and  he  was  quait  mad.  Inside  his 
head  the  weather  always  hot;  his  face  turn  red  as 
bricks,  his  mouth  boiled  when  he  spoke  about  some- 
thing not  worth  two  pice  and  a  half.  Yet  madmen 
can  tell  you  what  is  coming,  Jack;  not  the  whole 
truly,  the  part.  This  one  preached  always  war ;  great 
war,  soon." 


BOLDERO  311 

**You  believe  him?"  asked  Boldero,  to  pass  the 
time. 

'*!  think  he  was  paid  to  say,"  replied  the  Sikh  more 
cheerfully;  but  he  began  brooding  again,  and  contin- 
ued: **  Maybe  true.  I  think  so  after  that  ship  did  not 
land  her  passenger  any  up  North.  A  trick. '  * 
** Where  will  his  war  come?"  said  Jack. 
"God  knows,"  mourned  the  Indian.  "I  can  see, 
I  will  go  there.  Maybe  it  falling  on  France,  the  first 
time." 

** France?"  echoed  Boldero.    He  said  no  more,  but 
fell  to  ruminating  this  bit  of  news. 
I      The  eastern  wall  of  their  cabin,  downhill,  was  now 
''   diced  by  upright  lines  of  orange  fire  among  the  board- 
ing.   Sunrise  had  stolen  down  from  the  summits  to 
pierce  the  cracks  of  the  hovel  and  cut  its  bluish  reek 
into  planes  and  slats  of  quivering  light.    The  door- 
way shone  like  red  gold;  and  through  its  frame  the 
two  men  beheld  luminous  fumes  of  mist  rolling  up 
where  spur  after  mountain  spur  plowed  a  whole  world 
to  make  ready  for  the  sun,  the  Sower  of  Day.    Birds 
I  began  to  sing.    A  canon  warbler  lavished  his  melody 
as  if  he  could  go  on  forever.    Among  laurel  branches 
,   a  highland  blue  jay  perked  his  crest,  twinkled  his 
i  azure  wings,  and  sounded  his  impudent  call :  Grrink ! 
Boldero  and  the  Sikh  watched  him  as  he  flew  to 
another  treetop. 
R       The  spray  on  which  he  lighted  swung  to  rest;  the 


312  BOLDERO 

bird  remained  motionless  and  silent ;  yet  they  seemed 
to  hear  the  quiet  beating  of  his  wings  continue  in  the 
morning  stillness. 

No,  it  was  not  wings  beating;  it  was  a  pulse,  or  a 
light  clapping  of  hands,  weak  and  regular.  It  was 
neither,  but  footsteps  that  raced  up  the  path,  and  a 
panting  like  the  panting  of  a  dog. 

The  listeners  jumped  up  just  as  a  man  stumbled 
over  the  threshold  and  pitched  headlong  between 
them.  A  little  dark  man  in  soiled  khaki,  he  lay  with 
his  face  on  the  floor  and  shook  as  though  the  violence 
of  his  breathing  would  rend  him  apart. 

'^Ramdayal!" 

The  runner  turned  limply  over  on  his  back,  stared 
at  them  with  hot,  glazed  eyes.  He  was  bareheaded, 
and  much  oily  black  hair,  loosened  from  its  knot, 
hung  round  his  face. 

**Juldi  ao!'*  he  gasped,  and  lifted  one  hand  in  a 
beckoning  gesture.    ''Come  quickly!*' 

The  khaki  round  his  armpits  showed  black  with 
sweat;  his  throat  was  a  smear  of  blood. 

** 'mara  .  .  .  kdm  .  .  .  Jiogia!'*      The    words 

came  as  from  a  bellows.    *'My  work  is  finished!*' 

And  he  dropped  flat  again,  with  his  face  on  the 
rotten  floor  boards. 


IX 


Ghanda  Singh  would  have  raised  him ;  but  the  man 
made  a  sign  to  be  let  alone,  pillowed  his  bare  head  on 
crossed  elbows,  and  lay  panting  like  a  worn-out  dog, 
shaken  with  rapid  panting,  relaxed  in  a  great  heave, 
shaken  again.  Boldero  watched  him  for  a  moment; 
then  stepping  quietly  to  the  door,  looked  down  the 
hill  track.  It  curved  and  crooked  through  glistening 
evergreens,  a  red  scar  along  the  canon  flank,  blotted 
here  and  there  by  tree  tops,  but,  on  the  whole,  visible 
in  the  clear  sunlight  which  poured  under  rising  mist. 
Boldero  studied  every  corner  and  every  clump  of 
bush.  Nothing  approached  but  the  mist  overhead. 
More  than  a  mile  away  the  reddish  scar  became  a 
thread  looping  round  a  laurel  promontory.  Nothing 
moved  in  all  its  length ;  neither  man  nor  beast. 

He  leaned  against  the  frame,  watching  indoors  and 
out  by  turns. 

The  runner's  breathing  became  gradually  more 
human.    At  last  he  rolled  upon  his  back  and  sighed. 

**Pani?"  asked  Ramdayal  plaintively. 

A  short,  thin  man,  he  was  much  darker  than  his 
313 


314  BOLDERO 

brother  Sikh,  more  coarsely  featured,  with  big,  soft 
eyes,  pouting  lips,  and  even  in  this  distress,  a  look  of 
invincible  rough-and-ready  humor. 

**Not  dead  yet,*'  he  groaned.    **Give  me  a  drink.*' 

Ghanda  Singh  fetched  him  a  battered  canteen, 
rolled  under  his  head  the  chopping-block,  padded  it 
with  the  old  serge  overcoat,  and  lifted  him  comfort- 
ably. Ramdayal  grinned.  He  took  the  canteen,  but 
only  rinsed  his  mouth  and  squirted  the  water  across 
the  floor.  His  throat  showed  a  fearful  mass  of  red — 
part  wet,  part  clotted. 

'*Look  to  his  wound,"  said  Boldero.  **I'm  watch- 
ing the  road.'* 

Ramdayal  squirted  another  jet. 

*' Who's  thatr'  he  asked.  ** Who's  the  young  sa- 
hib?" 

''One  of  us,"  replied  Ghanda  Singh.  ''That's 
Jack.  Sent  by  the  Little  Old  Man.  Show  us  your 
bleeding." 

The  wounded  messenger  nodded,  put  down  the 
water  can,  relaxed,  and  lazily  unbuttoned  his  khaki 
jacket.  All  within  seemed  gore  at  first;  but  his 
friends  were  soon  relieved  when  he  drew  his  finger 
along  the  wound  itself — a  flesh  cut  from  left  shoulder 
to  left  breast.  It  had  ceased  bleeding,  stanched  per- 
haps by  the  salt  sweat,  which  made  it  look  worse  than 
it  was.  A  weapon,  somebody's  knife,  had  driven  for 
the   collar-bone   hole,   that   three-cornered   gateway 


BOLDERO  315 

down  into  the  heart,  but  had  missed  and  gone  glanc- 
ing off  the  lean  upper  ribs.  Ramdayal  folded  his 
tunic  gingerly  into  place  and  laughed. 

*'They  beat  me  with  latJiis,  also/*  he  declared. 
**But  I  not  stopping,  I  come.    Hey,  brother  T' 

And  he  made  Bolder o  a  little  jaunty  salute. 

'* You're  all  right!''  stated  Boldero  warmly. 

Ramdayal,  snuggling  into  the  folded  coat,  winked 
both  his  merry  black  eyes,  like  a  babe  who  cannot 
wink  one  singly. 

'*Yes,"  said  he;  **and  I  got  it." 

With  that  he  reached  under  his  right  side  and  pro- 
duced a  cylinder  of  dirty  brown  paper  about  a  foot 
and  a  half  long,  tied  with  piping  cord,  which  he  held 
out  as  though  it  were  a  diploma  or  an  address  of  wel- 
come. 

"Dwrw5f/' he  chuckled.    ''No  fear." 

With  joyful  countenance  Ghanda  Singh  took  the 
paper  cylinder. 

"Is  it?"  he  cried.    "That?    The  Three  Cows?" 

Ramdayal  nodded,  shut  his  eyes,  and  lay  back,  a 
smiling  picture  of  content  and  weariness. 

"What  shall  we  do?"  said  Ghanda  Singh.  He 
poked  the  roll  into  his  bosom,  rose,  and  came  to  consult 
Boldero.    ' '  How, ' '  he  whispered, ' '  we  are  going  on  ?  " 

"Give  me  it  and  111  run,"  replied  Boldero,  "while 
you  look  after  Ramdayal  here." 

"  No ! "  cried  the  other,  frowning.    "  No ! " 


316  BOLDERO 

Jack  knew  his  man  then ;  good  fellow,  brave,  faith- 
ful, Ghanda  Singh  had  for  their  present  need  a  habit 
of  too  quick  suspicion  and  not  enough  foresight. 
Their  need  was  great,  moreover;  time  pressed;  they 
must  act,  and  somebody  play  leader. 

**A11  right.''  Boldero,  affecting  to  watch  the  trail, 
thought  quickly.  ** Where's  your  crowd  that's  fol- 
lowing you  ?    How  far  behind  ? ' ' 

**In  the  bush,  down,*'  Ramdayal  answered,  like  a 
man  talking  in  his  sleep.  **By  the  railroad,  last  time 
of  seeing  them.  Six;  all  bad  ones.  They  break  the 
bush  over  looking  for  me,  swearing.  They  carry  pis- 
tols." 

Those  railroad  bushes,  a  vagabond-haunted  thicket, 
lay  not  more  than  five  miles  away.  Boldero  knew  the 
place  of  old  and  hated  it.  Ramdayal 's  pursuers,  wait- 
ing there,  could  block  the  lower  mouth  of  the  canon. 
'  *  Can 't  go  down, ' '  thought  Boldero.  *  *  We  must  climb 
on  up ;  take  to  the  hills. "  If  he  took  to  them  he  must 
keep  them,  begin  a  hare-and-hound  game  southward 
along  the  mountains,  one  hundred  miles  and  more 
of  tough  going,  with  only  five  head  start. 

'*Able  to  walk?"  he  asked  Ramdayal.  ''Slow, 
downhill,  mile  or  two?" 

The  spent  runner  showed  his  teeth.  ^ 

'*  Able,  sahib?    Yes.    lean." 

"Have  you  money  to  go  on?" 


BOLDERO  317 

A  cunning  light  smoldered  in  Ramdayars  eyes  to 
say  that  his  purse  was  a  private  affair. 

'*Then  take  this  note.'' 

From  a  fly-spotted  lithograph  on  the  wall  Boldero 
tore  a  corner  of  blank  paper,  on  which,  holding  it 
against  the  door  jamb,  he  wrote  in  pencil : 

*  *  Cash  D alrymple  : 

''Please  feed  and  bed  the  bearer.  On  quiet.  He  is 
a  friend  of  ours. 

''J.  W.,  per  J.  B." 

This  he  read  aloud,  then  folded  and  gave  to  Ram- 
dayal. 

' '  Go  down  to  the  bar-room,  first  building  you  reach. 
Hand  that  chit  to  the  red-haired  man.  Keep  off  this 
path.  Go  through  the  woods,  and  mind  you,  to  the 
back  door  of  the  red-haired  man's  house." 

Ghanda  Singh  added  a  few  words  in  some  unknown 
tongue — perhaps  a  bit  of  slang  from  the  Five  Rivers : 

''The  shrub  seller  who  is  red  as  a  panda." 

Their  wounded  friend  pocketed  the  scrap  of  writ- 
ing, got  up,  buttoned  the  neck  of  his  tunic,  shook  him- 
self like  a  man  half  rested,  and  calmly  stalked  out-of- 
doors. 

"My  salaam  to  the  Little  Gray  One  Who  Hears 
Nothing." 

He  wriggled  under  a  branch  beside  the  cabin  and 


318  BOLDERO 

disappeared  as  though  the  green  mountain  had  swal- 
lowed him  alive. 

Such  obedience,  though  more  than  Boldero  had 
hoped  for,  he  endeavored  to  take  as  a  matter  of  course. 

"Make  up  your  baggage,'*  he  told  Ghanda  Singh, 
''quickly.    You  and  me  for  the  hills.*' 

Again  came  obedience.  The  Indian  squatted  on  the 
floor  and  folded  his  greatcoat  into  a  neat  and  sin- 
gularly compact  roll,  which  he  left  open  until  he  had 
gathered  and  laid  inside  it  his  black-handled  knife, 
two  tin  plates,  two  spoons,  a  little  cotton  sack  of  food, 
the  canteen,  and  a  box  of  matches.  His  quick  brown 
fingers  made  a  pass,  a  loop,  a  knot ;  then  the  man  rose, 
with  a  tidy  pack  hanging  between  his  shoulder  blades. 

''Ready,  go,'*  reported  Ghanda  Singh. 

Boldero  swung  under  his  blanket  roll.  Without  so 
much  as  a  farewell  glance  the  two  men  slipped  quietly 
out  of  the  cabin,  shut  the  door,  and  dodged  upward 
from  the  path  among  the  overhanging  evergreen 
boughs.  A  steep  wood  mottled  with  shadow  enfolded 
them.  Young  laurel  trunks  wriggled  in  snaky  lines  of 
gray  and  green;  brown  madroiia  limbs,  smooth  as  a 
peeled  wand  or  scabbed  with  curling  tissue,  upheld 
broad  foliage  glossed  in  the  sunlight  which  they 
caught  and  obscured;  while  dead  leaves,  cinnabar 
dust,  and  sharp-cornered  pebbles  littered  a  maze  of 
old  runways  made  by  wild  beasts  or  by  roaming  cattle 
— false  trails  that  began  everywhere,  parted,   and 


BOLDERO  319 

led   roundabout  to   impassable  walls   of  chaparral. 

'*We  lose  our  way,"  grumbled  the  Sikh. 

Boldero  said  nothing,  but  through  this  puzzle  fol- 
lowed the  black  will-o'-the-wisp  of  his  own  shadow, 
knowing  that  it  struggled  upward  and  westward  be- 
fore the  morning  sun. 

He  climbed  at  a  pace  that  kept  his  companion 
wheezing.  The  ground  rose  abruptly;  underfoot  the 
sharp-cornered  volcanic  pebbles  rattled  down  like  dice, 
and  last  year's  oak  and  bay  leaves,  a  dry,  brittle  car- 
pet, slid  away  to  fetch  him  on  hands  and  knees ;  but 
the  two  men  hurried  upward,  sweating,  until  a  blue 
light  pierced  the  tangled  boughs  ahead.  They  had 
conquered  their  first  hill:  like  a  strip  of  window, 
through  irregular-pointed  mullions,  gleamed  the  sky. 

* 'We're  up  far  enough,"  Boldero  panted.  *'Now 
south  we  go,  Ghanda." 

Turning  at  a  right  angle,  he  dove  into  bushes  and 
tore  his  way  through  to  sunlight. 

''Now  let's  do  a  trot." 

They  stood  all  at  once  in  open  country  on  a  bare 
green  ridge  that  undulated  southward,  unrolling  miles 
of  upland  turf  crinkled  with  shadows.  The  mist  had 
drawn  aloft  and  melted.  Clean  as  a  polo  field  the 
long-backed  hill  ran,  an  oval  park  surrounded  by 
mountain  forest. 

* '  Come ! ' '  said  Boldero.    ' ' Let 's  jog. ' ' 

But  Ghanda  Singh  flatly  refused  to  hurry.    Halt- 


320  BOLDERO 

ing  for  breath,  he  smiled  agreeably  and  shook  his 
turbaned  head. 

* '  No !    Running  is  no  need.    Look ! '  * 

In  climbing  they  had  fetched  a  circuit  round  the 
head  of  the  glen,  which  now  lay  hidden  beneath  its 
topmost  trees  as  by  a  low  hedge.  Through  a  gap  in 
the  branches  Ghanda  Singh,  with  a  satisfied  air, 
pointed  an  arm  down  the  canon.  It  lay  vacant  under 
the  morning  light,  a  narrow  crease  among  the  hills 
choked  with  rounded  laurels,  like  huge  green  sponges 
piled  in  confusion.  Down  through  them  zigzagged 
the  reddish  thread  of  the  path,  winding  toward  a 
white  speck,  far-off,  which  was  Dalrymple's  tavern. 
Nothing  in  this  vista  moved  but  the  shadow  of  a 
hawk — the  bird  himself  lost  in  dazzling  upper  air — 
that  glided  with  long  curves  across  the  greenery. 

'*You  look?    Nobody  coming.'' 

**Why  notr*  inquired  Boldero. 

'*You  can  see?"  replied  the  Sikh,  tolerant  and  su- 
perior.   '* Who  is  there?    No  one.    The  path  empty.'* 

At  this  Boldero  began  to  lose  his  patience. 

"Of  course  she's  empty!"  he  cried.  ''Do  you  sup- 
pose they'd  come  up  waving  flags  and  blowing  sirens 
for  us?    Come  on  here,  my  friend;  a  little  speed." 

His  companion,  with  the  same  provoking  ease, 
walked  onward  some  few  paces,  a  long-legged  figure 
of  Oriental  dignity.  Boldero  stood  looking  after  him. 
''If  I'm  going  to  have  trouble  with  this  fellow,"  he  ''\ 


BOLDERO  321 

thought,  "better  have  it  now  while  there's  time." 
And  with  that,  striding  forward,  he  overtook  and 
confronted  the  Sikh  face  to  face. 

**Look  here!"  said  he.  **I  like  you  well  enough, 
Ghanda,  and  we  can't  afford  to  spoil  things  by  a  row. 
But" — he  looked  the  man  hard  in  the  eyes — ^''we're 
making  a  wrong  start.  You  give  me  that  roll  o' 
paper." 

The  Hindu  threw  back  his  head,  staring  haughtily. 

''No!"  he  cried. 

''Yes!"  said  Boldero  quietly.     "Hand  it  over." 

The  other  made  a  slight  movement,  as  though  to 
reach  a  weapon.  Boldero,  having  none,  stood  mo- 
tionless but  ready.  Blue  eyes  and  brown  held  each 
other  in  silent  conflict. 

"  1 11  take  the  paper  to  Jimmy.  That 's  my  hookum. 
Give  it  here.    I'm  not  fooling." 

It  was  the  brown  eyes  that  yielded.  Suddenly,  with 
a  pettish  jerk,  Ghanda  Singh  tore  open  the  breast  of 
his  jacket  and  slapped  the  paper  into  Boldero 's  hand. 

"Give  it  to  me  properly." 

This  reproof,  uttered  in  a  casual  way,  completed 
the  man's  surrender;  his  body  seemed  to  relax  and 
turn  supple ;  and  it  was  with  an  almost  bashful  cere- 
mony that  he  presented  the  dirty  cylinder  to  his 
master. 

** Hookum  Jiaif  sahib."    He  laughed  sheepishly  and 


322  BOLDERO 

rebuttoned  his  jacket.  *'Do  not  be  angry.  I  was 
joking.'* 

Boldero  put  away  the  treasure. 

**I  know  it,  Ghanda/'  he  agreed.  '*  *This  was  a 
g-o-a-k.'    Now  let's  do  a  jog.'' 

He  spoke  as  if  they  had  been  arguing  the  weather, 
ignored  his  companion's  embarrassment,  and,  with  a 
tug  to  tighten  belt  and  blanl^et  roll,  stepped  off,  run- 
ning at  an  easy  pace.  For  half  a  dozen  strides  he 
went  alone;  but  soon,  though  careful  not  to  look  be- 
hind, he  heard  the  Sikh  overtaking  him.  Elbow  to 
elbow  they  ran.  Underfoot,  spangled  with  pink  mal- 
lows and  tiny  blond  lilies  of  zygadenus,  the  grass  in- 
vited them  like  a  race  course.  Boldero  gamboled  along 
with  plenty  of  action,  performed  in  a  mixed  gait, 
and  at  every  step  rejoiced  to  feel  sunny  turf  upspring- 
ing,  to  pass  young  flowers  glinting  with  moisture. 
Yards,  furlongs,  miles,  all  distance  became  alike  in 
the  pleasure  of  running;  this  bare  hilltop  unreeled 
its  length,  a  wavy  green  ribbon,  a  magic  carpet  for 
speed;  while  the  morning  breeze  filled  his  nostrils 
cleanly  in  a  long,  abiding  draught,  the  wine  of 
motion. 

Thus  the  two  men  sped  along  the  ridge  till  it 
plunged  into  a  forest  from  whose  edge,  while  resting 
for  a  moment,  they  could  look  backward  and  see  the 
billowy  miles  of  greensward  they  had  left. 

'*  'The  wicked  flee,'  "  thought  Boldero,  "  'when  no 


BOLDERO  323 

man  pursueth/  *'  That  sunlit  hill  stretched  away, 
empty  of  living  figures.  *'But,  just  the  same,  well 
do  more  fleeing.'* 

So  all  day  they  hurried  southward  by  forgotten 
paths  that  wound  among  evergreens,  now  vanishing 
in  a  thicket,  now  burrowing  under  the  windfallen 
mast  of  some  great  pine.  Once  they  halted  to  lie  on 
a  bed  of  moss  and  munch  dry  biscuits;  once  more, 
where  a  waterfall  roared  through  a  wilderness  of 
quivering  spikenard  leaves,  to  drink  and  to  bathe  in 
crystal  pools,  ice-cold,  that  smelled  of  trout;  but 
after  these  breathing-times,  refreshed,  they  trotted 
steadily  uphill  and  down,  disturbing  a  shadowy  si- 
lence barred  with  rays  of  dusty  green  light. 

Evening  closed  overhead  as  they  crawled  through  a 
lonely  pass  where  giant  boulders  leaned  against  the 
stars. 

*  *  No  more,  sahib,  * '  groaned  Ghanda  Singh.  *  *  I  can- 
not.'' 

He  spoke  honestly  and  humbly;  he  had  followed 
like  a  true  man ;  but  now  his  breath  came  hoarse  and 
his  body  trembled  with  fatigue. 

*  *  AU  right.    We  '11  camp  here. ' ' 

A  grassplot  curved  under  the  base  of  a  torn  crag. 
On  this  plot  they  flung  themselves  down  and  panted. 

**I  am  very  cold."  The  Sikh,  wrapping  his  great- 
coat round  him,  shivered  miserably.  **  We  not  having 
afire,  sahib?" 


324  BOLDERO 

There  seemed  no  reason  why  they  should  not  make 
a  camp  fire  here  in  this  rocky  solitude.  They  had 
come  fast  and  far  enough,  surely,  to  be  alone,  safe. 
Boldero  gathered  some  dead  brush,  with  a  log  or  two. 
Soon  a  small  but  hot  and  clear  fire  crackled  on  the 
grassplot,  twined  its  column  of  sparks  up  the  crag 
chimney,  and  lighted  round  its  edge  a  few  wild  irises 
that  pushed  from  the  grass  their  dark  blue  fleurs-de- 
lis.  Ghanda  Singh  *s  turban,  as  he  hugged  the  flame 
and  chafed  his  hands,  glowed  with  changeable  color, 
now  lilac,  now  orange.  To  see  all  this  on  a  background 
of  smoke  and  gray  rock  spires  wavering  toward  the 
starry  heaven,  to  smell  the  faint  bitter-honey  per- 
fume of  iris,  reminded  Boldero  of  some  happier  life 
that  he  had  known  before  and  forgotten. 

**I  wonder  why  we*re  up  here  doing  this?'^  he 
thought.  Until  the  present  moment  he  had  viewed 
his  errand  sceptically;  but  now  of  a  sudden  it  be- 
came real,  and  he  felt  inside  his  coat  for  Jimmy  *s 
document. 

*' Let's  have  a  look/'  said  he,  '*at  our  Three  Cows." 


The  picture  he  unrolled  and  held  up  in  the  fire- 
light seemed  a  poor  scrawl,  without  color,  a  three-foot 
vertical  strip  containing  angular  dark  scratches  hap- 
hazard upon  gray.  So  Boldero  thought  at  the  first 
glance,  and  so  much  Ghanda  Singh,  peering  through 
the  smoke,  implied  as  his  final  judgment. 

*  *  Yes,  that  being  it.  Durust  was  the  word  of  Ram- 
dayal,  who  never  telling  lies — to  me.  Certainly  the 
right  picture. ' '  The  Indian  regarded  it  with  a  mourn- 
ful lack  of  interest,  as  he  would  have  regarded  the 
loveliest  landscape  on  earth.  **A  queen  made  it  in  old 
time.  Seven  lakhs  for  that!  Great  money  all  gone. 
But  the  white  paint  is  pearl  dust — ^you  can  see,  sahib 
— pearls  grinded  like  curry  powder.  I  suppose  she 
wet  them  with  tarpintel?  Oh,  foolish!  What  a 
waste!'* 

Boldero  agreed,  then  doubtfully  wagged  his  head, 
and,  continuing  to  gaze,  drifted  under  the  power  of 
an  ancient  charm.  What  his  bodily  eyes  beheld  was 
an  oblong  panel  of  silk,  worm-eaten  in  one  corner,  the 
rest  an  illusion  of  faint  coloring  which,  delicate  and 

325 


I 


326  BOLDERO 

subtle  even  by  the  firelight,  showed  three  cows  graz- 
ing in  a  slant  hill  pasture.  His  inward  eyes  beheld 
something  more  remote.  Grotesque  and  peaceful,  the 
creatures  wandered  in  morning  vapor,  and,  under  a 
high  background  where  fantastic  pointed  mountains 
loomed,  wore  that  supernatural  air  of  dawn,  silence, 
and  loneliness  which  can  clothe  brute  life  with  won- 
der. The  queen  who  painted  them — dead,  centuries 
ago — ^had  left  a  miracle  upon  this  band  of  silk.  They 
were  no  farmer's  cattle,  nor  even  sacred  heifers  that 
a  priest  might  lead  with  garlands  and  gilded  horns 
to  an  altar ;  for  their  vague  shapes  outlined  the  greater 
mystery  inherited,  suffered,  and  transmitted  from 
generation  to  generation  by  all  the  beasts  of  the  field 
that  perish.  They  were  cropping  fairy  grass,  drink- 
ing ghostly  dew,  in  the  forlorn  light  of  ages. 

Boldero  felt  some  part  of  this  Chinese  magic 
dumbly. 

'^I  can  see  why  folks  would  like  it.*^  He  sighed, 
and  returning  from  distant  regions  to  his  own  life, 
blew  a  camp-fire  ash  from  the  silk  panel,  which  he 
rolled  carefully  together.  **Yeah,  I  can  see,"  he 
mused,  putting  it  away.  '*Must  be  mighty  valuable. 
Jimmy  wasn't  fooling  me.'' 

The  knowledge  reassured  him,  for  until  now  his 
errand  had  seemed  a  doubtful,  harebrained  matter, 
too  much  like  another  of  Jimmy's  tricks ;  but  here  in- 
side his  jacket  he  carried  proof  and  reason,  a  pre- 


BOLDERO  327 

cious  thing,  real  substance  to  be  guarded.  He  sat 
watching  the  Hindu  warm  his  lean  brown  wrists,  from 
one  of  which  an  iron  bangle  swung  and  glinted  red- 
dish in  the  firelight.  Both  men  were  hungry,  but 
not  as  yet  sufficiently  rested  to  begin  eating.  They 
drowsed  by  their  little  fire,  while  smoke  and  sparks 
drew  up  the  gray  crag  chimney  into  windless 
night  and  the  glory  of  stars.  One  clear  planet  burned 
above  the  void  where  lay  the  eastern  valley. 

**  To-morrow '* — the  Sikh  nodded  toward  this  lus- 
trous wanderer — ^"to-morrow  we  going  there  the  way? 
Down,  and  travel  the  plains?    We  being  safe.'' 

Jack  saw  no  objection.  Having  threaded  so  much 
wilderness  all  day,  surely  they  were  free  from  pursuit 
and  might  descend  into  the  lower  country,  where  go- 
ing would  be  easy. 

'*Yes,''  he  replied;  ''I  think  we're  safe  enough 
now." 

The  words  were  no  sooner  out  of  his  mouth  than 
he  had  cause  to  think  differently.  A  sound  from  be- 
yond the  crag  brought  him  upright,  listening.  It 
was  a  muffled  sound  that  approached  in  a  regular 
rhythm — the  steady  grunt-grunt  of  horses  cantering 
on  grass. 

Boldero  jumped  into  the  fire,  stamped  it  flat,  and 
kicked  showers  of  dirt  over  the  coals.  Then,  finger- 
ing round  the  edges  of  the  rock,  he  tore  up  a  long 
scalp  of  turf  and  spread  it  like  a  mat  over  the  embers. 


328  BOLDERO 

'^Corne!'*  he  whispered,  as  soon  as  he  had  made  all 
dark  and  re-slung  his  blanket.  "Here  with  me — 
lively!'' 

Noiseless  and  quick  he  wriggled  up  toward  the 
gap  in  the  crags,  a  notch  of  starlight  among  gray 
pinnacles.  He  heard  the  Sikh  bound  on  foot,  making 
as  if  to  follow.  But  presently,  when  he  crawled 
among  boulders  into  the  narrow  mouth  of  the  pass, 
he  found  himself  alone  there :  Ghanda  Singh,  whether 
by  misunderstanding  or  losing  the  way  or  willfully 
taking  another  direction,  had  vanished.  B older o 
crouched  on  a  ledge  of  sharp  rocks,  and  closed  his 
eyes  to  get  rid  of  the  dazzling  effect  left  by  the  camp 
fire. 

''Fur  enough  for  to-night,"  drawled  a  quiet  voice 
that  he  seemed  to  know.  It  spoke  from  somewhere 
near  by,  under  his  rocky  pinnacle. 

Boldero  opened  his  eyes.  He  could  see  clearly  now, 
by  starlight,  a  ridge  of  dark  open  country  sloping 
away  below  the  pass.  Two  horsemen,  motionless,  were 
halted  so  near  that  he  might  have  dropped  a  pebble 
on  their  hats.  One  horse  was  white,  the  other  a 
shadow  alongside  it. 

''Fur  enough,"  repeated  the  man  on  the  white 
horse.  ''They  couldn't  'a'  hoofed  it  clean  to  here 
sence  mornin'." 

Once  more  Boldero  nearly  recognized  this  voice; 


BOLDERO  329 

and  the  reply,  in  a  louder  and  more  whining  tone, 
made  it  certain. 

''Listen  to  me,  Fingers.  This  here  is  Gunsight 
Pass.  Reckon  we  better  scrabble  right  on  through, 
and  then '' 

''Shut  your  gap!'*  growled  Fingers  the  Miner. 
His  white  horse  gave  way  and  started  at  the  words, 
earning  a  curse  and  a  blow.  "You  quit  your  yawp- 
in',  Pill.  We  got  'em  headed  off;  got  'em  bunged 
up  in  a  jug.  Through  this  here  pass  they're  bound 
to  come,  and  by  daylight  to-morrer  we'll  ketch  'em 
comin',  sure." 

The  other  horseman  retorted  under  his  breath  some- 
thing that  was  followed  by  a  hoarse,  whispering  wran- 
gle. Boldero  could  not  hear  what  they  were  saying, 
nor  did  he  wait  to  listen.  Crawling  backward  at 
top  speed,  though  carefully,  he  retreated  down  the 
rocks  to  the  grassplot  again.  Their  smothered  fire 
reeked  sourly,  but  gave  not  an  ember  of  light.  Where, 
he  wondered,  was  Ghanda  Singh?  Unable  to  call  or 
whistle,  he  could  only  peer  roundabout  and  see  noth- 
ing but  gray  rocks,  the  shadowy  floor  of  the  clearing, 
the  black  wall  reared  by  the  northern  woods,  all  ob- 
scure and  deceptive  under  the  starshine.  He  had 
lost  his  companion.    The  Sikh  was  gone. 

For  a  moment  Boldero  weighed  his  chances  of  over- 
taking the  man :  back  to  the  forest,  or  downhill  east- 
erly toward  that  burning  planet,  they  seemed  equal: 


330  BOLDERO 

and  before  he  had  chosen  there  came  from  the 
crags  above  a  clink  of  iron  and  a  rattle  of  sliding 
pebbles. 

The  horsemen  were  through  the  Gunsight  notch, 
descending  the  cleft  upon  this  side. 

It  would  have  been  easy  to  make  a  grave  mistake. 
Boldero  nearly  made  it,  then  bethought  himself  in 
time:  he  darted  silently,  not  down  across  the  open, 
but  up  toward  his  approaching  enemies.  Among  the 
rocks  of  the  little  pass  he  wriggled  and  lay  flat, 
hardly  two  paces  from  the  trail;  there  he  waited, 
burying  his  face  in  his  arms,  for  he  knew  the  power 
of  eye  to  attract  eye,  to  call  a  seeker's  glance  to  a 
hiding-place. 

The  horses,  feeling  their  way  down  the  rocks, 
paused  beside  him,  so  near  that  one  hoof  tossed  a 
flint  upon  his  blanket  roll. 

**I  smell  somep'n  burnt,''  murmured  Pill-Hop's 
voice. 

The  other  hissed  at  him,  commanding  silence. 
Leather  creaked.  The  horses  went  on,  till  their  de- 
parting clatter  ceased  on  the  grassplot. 

At  once,  before  they  were  fairly  past,  Boldero  had 
begun  crawling  on  his  belly  up  the  Gunsight ;  now  he 
rose  in  the  nearest  shadow  and  crept  along  the  broken 
wall  on  his  right,  flattening  himself  sidewise  with 
arms  outstretched  like  a  man  groping  in  a  blind  cor- 
ridor.   Thus  he  climbed  painfully,  with  every  foot- 


BOLDERO  331 

hold  to  be  tested,  every  jntting  cornice  to  be  hugged, 
every  loose  block  swarmed  over.  So  he  came  into  the 
nick  full  of  stars  at  the  summit,  passed  his  former 
ledge,  and,  with  redoubled  speed  but  no  less  caution, 
lowered  himself  through  the  crowded  chaos  of  the 
southern  cleft. 

'* Blessings  on  ye!"  he  sighed  at  last,  addressing 
the  welcome  turf. 

Here  at  these  rocks  the  hill-back  was  nipped  to- 
gether like  an  hour-glass;  but  before  him  stretched, 
widening,  a  bare  upland,  of  what  extent  he  could  not 
guess.  Far  ahead  the  white  star  of  the  Lion  blazed 
on  high.  With  that  for  guide  he  gathered  up  his 
heels  and  fled. 

**A  narrow  squeak!'*  he  thought.  '*A  dam  tight 
comer!    Ouf!" 

The  joy  of  escape  revived  him,  as  he  ran,  with  an 
exhilaration  keener  than  the  night  air.  He  forgot 
his  weariness.  Earth  became  a  shadow  that  flowed 
behind  like  smoke,  its  contours  melting  and  scudding, 
the  touch  of  it  underfoot  recurring  as  a  fleet  pulsa- 
tion, a  thrill  of  speed.  He  seemed  to  race  along  a 
dond,  to  breathe  starlight  and  liberty. 

This  extravagance  could  not  last  long  when  a  man 
had  been  going  hard  since  daybreak;  two  miles 
of  it,  and  Boldero,  panting,  came  back  to  solid  ground. 
He  flung  himself  down,  pressed  his  ear  to  the  grass, 
and  hearkened.    Throughout  the  hill  there  was  no 


332  BOLDERO 

stir  or  tremor  to  be  heard.  He  rose,  however,  and 
went  forward  at  a  long,  swinging  Indian  trot  which 
he  maintained  for  an  hour  or  more ;  only  then,  after 
laying  ear  to  ground  again,  did  he  permit  himself 
the  luxury  of  walking. 

** Slipped  'em,'*  he  concluded.  **I  hope  the  Hindu 
got  away." 

At  the  first  clump  of  trees  he  halted,  untied  his  roll, 
ate  a  handful  of  cold  victuals,  wrapped  his  blanket 
round  him,  and  crept  under  a  bush.  Finding  a  dry, 
sweet-scented  lair  covered  with  a  network  of  black 
leaves  and  bright  stars,  he  fell  asleep. 

Dawn  found  him  up  and  trotting  through  the  gray 
mist  like  a  patient  phantom ;  sunrise  lighted  the  water 
of  the  brook  he  bathed  in;  morning  slipped  away  to 
the  tune  of  leg  over  leg,  the  light,  monotonous  rhythm 
of  good  running.  Sometimes  he  plowed  through  ferns 
in  a  tall  wood ;  sometimes  went  sweltering  up  or  down 
canons,  dazzled  with  the  brightness  and  cloyed  with 
the  hot  perfume  of  sky-blue  lilacs.  It  was  afternoon 
when  he  reached  a  bare  hillside  pitted  with  gopher 
holes,  from  which  his  passage  frightened  a  company 
of  small,  light-brown  hawks  that  left  their  watching 
in  burrow  mouths  to  soar  aloft,  as  though  the  earth 
were  spawning  birds.  Upon  this  hill  he  paused,  for 
below  in  sudden  depth  lay  the  plain  and  the  rest  of 
his  journey  spread  like  a  map. 

**Now  we  must  go  pretty  sly,'*  he  thought,  scan- 


BOLDERO  333 

ning  this  prospect.    '*We  must  use  the  headpiece.'* 

Boldero  sat  down  to  a  long  study.  Beyond  the 
slanting  flight  of  hawks  he  saw  the  valley  floor  as  an 
apple-green  haze  reaching  toward  the  lost  horizon, 
where  it  broke  into  silver  lakes  and  rivers — the  last 
reminder  of  his  old  enemy,  the  flood — whose  glimmer 
floated  upward  melting  into  the  vague  spring  sky. 
North  and  south,  east  and  west,  a  penciling  of  roads 
ruled  the  country  into  squares.  Far  away  a  gray 
stain  in  the  air  above  a  church  spire  no  larger  than 
a  thorn  point  showed  there  was  a  town. 

** That's  the  home  stretch."  Boldero,  like  a  pil- 
grim on  Mount  Caution,  learned  the  view  by  heart. 
** Hurrying  won't  do  now.  If  those  fellows  headed 
me  off  once  they  can  head  me  off  again.  In  their 
boots,  what'd  you  do?  Certain  sure  I'd  travel  by 
rail  straight  back  to  the  city,  and  lay  waiting  at 
the  finish." 

He  would  cross  that  living  green  map  with  extreme 
care,  and  enter  that  city  with  both  eyes  open. 

Next  evening  he  did  so,  dela3dng  his  arrival  until 
after  dusk.  Where  the  levee  curved  its  high  path 
he  came  like  any  humble  wayfarer, — a  lean  worn  wil- 
derness shape  courting  the  darkest  fringe  of  sal- 
lows, limping  in  their  obscurity  with  a  lameness 
half  genuine,  half  copied  from  that  tribe  which  he 
despised,  the  hobos.  Thoroughly  tired,  Boldero 
nevertheless  could  finish;  he  had  run  his  race,  and 


334  BOLDERO 

kept  the  faith,  and  brought  Father  Jimmy's  treasure 
home.  Only  a  hundred  yards  remained;  he  could 
reach  the  Black  Door  in  ten  seconds. 

**Just  what  I  ain't  going  to  do,"  he  reflected. 
**Now  comes  the  pinch.  When  you're  almost  there 
and  nobody  in  sight,  better  look  out." 

A  glowworm  hint  of  light  spread  up  the  embank- 
ment from  an  open  door  below.  It  was  the  door,  the 
pillars,  the  carven  gables  of  a  quiet  and  friendly 
refuge — Leung  She's  sunken  temple,  the  joss  house. 
Boldero  halted  and  considered  that  doorway. 

* '  Play  careful, ' '  some  instinct  warned  him.  *  *  Don 't 
overdo  your  game.  Yeah!  Leave  her  here.  That's 
the  right  way." 

He  slunk  down  the  diagonal  path,  between  the  two 
great  red-and-gold  tablets,  through  the  door.  Inside, 
the  shadows  yawned  black  and  still,  the  point  of 
lamplight  floating  in  its  cracked  tumbler  revealed 
the  dusty  embroidered  banners  hanging  lifeless, 
the  silver-gilt  halberds  in  their  rack,  the  sandal- 
wood prayer  sticks  unravelling  their  dove-blue  smoke 
toward  heaven.    Boldero  watched  and  listened. 

''Leung  She?"  he  called  quietly.  ''Leung 
She?" 

There  was  no  answer.  The  janitor-priest  did  not 
appear.  Boldero  stood  alone  in  the  gloom  with  the 
solitary  lamp,  and  the  firefly  sparks  and  perfume  of 
burning  sandalwood. 


BOLDERO  8SS 

He  heard  the  river  flowing  like  a  breath  of  wind 
behind  its  willow  bank. 

'^Now's  your  time.'* 

The  place  was  lonely  as  a  desert,  dark  and  secure 
as  the  grave.  He  drew  from  his  breast  that  soiled 
paper  roll,  now  damp  with  sweat,  which  contained 
the  dead  queen's  marvel.  Craning  over  the  altar 
light,  he  peeped  behind  the  shabby,  gleaming  idol,  and 
saw  what  he  expected;  in  a  recess  lurked  two  more 
images  of  the  god,  the  third  a  lump  swaddled  in 
cobwebs, — ^the  innermost  god  that  would  never  march 
in  procession,  never  journey  abroad,  but  always  re- 
main at  home,  dwelling  unseen. 

He  dropped  the  Three  Cows  behind  its  cobweb  veil. 
The  cylinder  fell  rustling,  and  a  light  cloud  of  dust 
drifted  about  the  gods,  past  the  altar  flame  in  the 
cracked  tumbler. 

'*There!''  he  sighed.  ''That's  all  right  for  one 
whHe.'' 

And  with  a  burden  off  his  mind,  he  stole  outdoors 
to  the  levee. 

When  a  few  moments  later  he  stood  by  the  Black 
Door  in  the  Wall,  his  precaution  seemed  unnecessary. 
The  lighted  windows  of  Chinese  merchants  dis- 
closed the  street  veranda  as  quite  empty  but  for 
a  farmer  of  vegetables  who  came  hobbling,  flat-footed, 
under  yoke  and  panniers.    No  man  lay  waiting  to 


336  BOLDERO 

intercept  Boldero;  no  one  cared  whether  he  came 
home  or  not;  for  the  Black  Door,  Jimmy ^s  door 
among  the  flame-colored  labels,  had  a  placard  nailed 
upon  it.  The  topmost  words  were  printed  in  Eng- 
lish: TO  LET. 

A  strip  of  ideographs  hung  raggedly  beneath. 

** What's  thatr*  cried  Boldero  in  dismay. 

The  coolie  with  the  panniers  came  bobbing  past  and 
amicably  answered  the  question. 

**Allo  same  hotel,'*  he  explained,  grinning.  **Say, 
you  wantchee  hylah  some  loom,  go  to  sleep,  you  askee 
Leung  She,  you  catchem,  saw.    You  wantchee  T' 

Boldero  wanted  nothing.  He  stared  at  the  placard ; 
then  at  the  basket-bearer,  who  went  swaying  on  his 
business  into  the  dark;  then  at  the  placard  again. 
The  bottom  had  dropped  out  of  Boldero 's  world. 

Mr.  Weechurch's  rooms  were  to  let.  Jimmy  had 
gone. 


XI 


He  stared  at  the  Black  Door  as  though  it  were  the 
entrance  of  a  tomb.  To  return  successful  and  find 
his  old  friend  gone  brought  all  his  belief  and  confi- 
dence tumbling  into  ruin.  Father  Jimmy  had  not 
even  waited ;  the  expedition  led  to  nothing  whatever ; 
and  this  homecoming,  this  triumph  of  one  moment 
ago,  ended  in  a  blank  desertion  far  worse  than  failure. 

The  mood  passed.  It  served  to  tell  Boldero,  clearly, 
how  much  he  had  grown  to  like  the  strange,  deaf, 
eccentric  little  old  creature  known  as  James  Wee- 
church. 

*'He  wouldn't  leave  me  in  a  hole.''  Boldero  re- 
gained his  wits  and  his  loyalty.  ** Something's  hap- 
pened.   Something's  gone  wrong." 

Remembering  that  he  owned  a  key,  he  drew  it  out, 
unlocked  the  Black  Door,  opened,  and  entered. 

The  stairway  was  darker  than  ever;  his  footsteps, 
as  he  mounted,  seemed  to  rouse  more  echoes  than 
before;  and,  though  on  the  landing  corridor  both 
doors  stood  open,  there  came  from  the  two  rooms 
neither  light  nor  the  stir  of  living  presence,  but  only 
gloom  and  emptiness. 

337 


338  BOLDERO 

"Jimmy?''  he  called  aloud. 

The  question  rang  hollow  in  the  dark.  Boldero 
struck  a  match  and  held  it  up  in  the  front  chamber. 
Not  so  much  as  a  stick  of  furniture  remained;  the 
shelves  were  swept  clean,  tier  on  tier;  the  cupboard 
doors  leaned  open.  He  carried  the  burning  match 
into  his  own  bedroom,  and  there,  likewise,  found  an 
abomination  of  desolation;  for,  though  the  familiar 
smell  of  herbs  lingered  powerfully,  not  one  bundle  of 
them  was  left  hanging.     The  match  went  out. 

''Something  mighty  wrong  here,"  thought  Bol- 
dero. 

He  stood  in  the  corridor,  trying  to  imagine  what 
had  happened  while  he  was  away.  The  effort  only 
increased  his  bewilderment  and  made  the  darkness 
in  the  vacant  loft  seem  more  disquieting;  so  he  re- 
turned quickly  to  the  front  room,  listening  and  peer- 
ing about  as  though  to  meet  some  hostile  watcher. 
Yet  when  he  had  found  a  candle-end  stuck  in  its 
guttered  wax  upon  a  cupboard  shelf,  and  had  lighted 
it,  nothing  appeared  in  the  room  but  his  own  shadow. 

*'I  can't  believe  Jimmy  would,"  he  told  himself 
again,  less  hopefully.  A  creaking  noise  on  the  stair- 
way made  him  jump.  ''What?  I  left  the  door  un- 
locked?" 

The  thought  flashed  through  him  with  a  premoni- 
tion of  something  evil  about  to  happen,  about  to  ar- 
rive.   Reluctantly,  like  a  man  forced  by  hypnotic 


BOLDERO  339 

summons,  he  turned  his  face  toward  the  doorway. 
Wavering  there  in  reddish  half  light,  not  far  above 
the  threshold,  another  face  watched  him  from  round 
the  edge  of  the  casing.  It  seemed  to  float,  bodiless 
and  malignant. 

**Don't  move!»' 

The  words  dispelled  Boldero's  first  conviction  of 
unreality. 

** Don't  move,'*  repeated  a  soft  and  drawling  voice. 

The  floating  face  moved  quickly  upward.  The 
man  to  whom  it  belonged  had  risen  at  a  leap  and 
cleared  the  topmost  stair.  Then,  casual  and  smirk- 
ing, Fingers  the  Miner  lounged  into  the  room. 

**We  traveled  a  long  ways  to  meet,  which  wasn't 
necessary,"  he  averred  with  dry  sarcasm.  **I  guess 
maybe  well  quit  dodgin'  wu'nuther  now,  and  talk 
business  comfortable.  Saves  time.'*  He  closed  the 
door,  then  leaned  against  it,  with  hands  in  pockets 
and  a  grim  pretence  of  being  entirely  at  ease.  *'Too 
bad  you  run  so  hard,  son.  Kinder  look  tucked  up 
and  famished.  What  scairt  you,  anyhow?  You  and 
me's  good  old  friends." 

There  was  no  chance  of  persuading  or  outwitting 
him,  Boldero  knew  at  once.  The  long,  shabby,  ill- 
favored  man,  lolling  there  so  awkward,  had  no  such 
foible  as  mercy.  The  candle  stood  too  far  away: 
impossible  to  blow  it  out. 


840  BOLDERO 

'*Talk  for  yourself.'*  Boldero  girded  up  the  loins 
of  his  spirit.     ^'I  pick  my  own  friends.'' 

Fingers  the  Miner  smiled,  or  at  least  a  pair  of 
bending  lines  furrowed  his  hard  cheeks.  If  the  man 
felt  any  visitings  of  humor  it  was  a  cold-blooded  hu- 
mor, a  cruel  conceit  prompted  by  the  knowledge  that 
he  held  the  upper  hand. 

*^Is  'at  so?"  he  drawled.  ''You  select  'em,  do  ye? 
Well,  I  don't  admire  your  powers  o'  choice.  Call 
yourself  an  Amurrican,  and  go  pickin'  up  raghead 
niggers  and  Chinks  and  Britishers?  A  hell  of  an 
Amurrican,  you  are !  Time  you  knowed  better.  But 
you're  young;  and  if  you  live" — ^he  paused  at  the 
word  ominously — ^''if  you  live  you  will  know  better, 
and  maybe  come  to  learn  the  principles  of  pattrytism 
and  who  your  natural  friends  are.  Un 'stand?  Now 
you  look  at  me,  right  in  the  face." 

*'It  won't  do  my  eyesight  no  good,"  said  Boldero, 
adopting  his  foe's  language  and  inflection. 

As  he  backed  away  to  sit  down  on  the  window 
ledge,  Fingers  the  Miner  started,  then  relaxed. 

"Don't  go  makin'  sudden  moves  like  that,"  he 
advised.  *'They  ain't  healthy.  Don't  move  to- wards 
the  candle." 

A  brief  silence  followed.  The  man's  lean  jaws 
worked  as  though  he  were  chewing  the  cud  of  self- 
satisfaction. 

*'But  we  was  meetin'  here  to  talk  business,"  he 


BOLDERO  341 

began   presently.    '*Come,    now!    Fork   out!    You 
know  what  I  mean.    Hand  her  over. ' ' 

Boldero  laughed.  Like  a  woman,  he  had  only  his 
tongue  for  defense;  and  therefore  he  would  use 
it  freely. 

' '  I  handed  her  over  long  ago,  * '  he  replied.  *  *  You  're 
late  for  the  fair.    I  gave  her  to  Jimmy.*' 

His  adversary's  eyes  narrowed  and  shone  red  as  a 
dog's  against  the  candlelight. 

**A  lie;  and  a  mighty  weak- jointed  lie  too.  Wha' 
d'ye  take  me  for — a  sucklin'  babe?  You  jest  got 
here  to-night.  You  was  off  cavortin'  over  the  hills 
when  Jimmy  died." 

Boldero 's  acting  failed  him ;  the  shock  was  too  great, 
the  pang  too  like  a  physical  wrenching  at  the  heart. 

*'Jimmy What?" 

It  was  the  turn  of  Fingers  to  laugh,  which  he  did 
sourly. 

"Ought  to  f oiler  the  news,"  he  said,  ** afore  you 
lie.  You  didn  't  know  Jimmy  was  dead  ?  Look  round 
ye.  He 's  a  Doornail  all  right.  The  Chinaman  carted 
off  and  sold  his  furniture  yesterday.  See  for  your- 
self." 

The  man  drew  a  cigar,  gnawed  the  end  off,  spat, 
and  lighted  a  match.  Every  motion  of  this  perform- 
ance, his  trick  of  rolling  the  cigar  in  his  mouth  while 
he  smoked,  was  cruel,  vulgar,  and  threatening. 

**Dead  as  a  Doornail !    Yeah;  that's  the  word,  boy. 


342  BOLDERO 

Jimmy  lays  out  in  his  Chinese  buryin'  ground,  six 
feet  below,  deefer  than  he  was  when  livin'.  What 
you  s'pose?  He  couldn^t  hear  ye  now,  not  even  if 
you  yelled/' 

Smirking  vaguely  round,  as  if  the  room  contained 
an  audience  that  approved  him,  the  cynic  fetched 
from  his  pocket  a  long  clasp  knife,  an  eight-inch  rod 
of  staghorn.  He  opened  it  thoughtfully.  Its  pointed 
blade,  of  the  kind  that  hunters  use  for  the  skinning 
of  deer,  flashed  while  he  tried  the  edge  on  his 
thumb-nail. 

**Not  even  if  you  yelled,''  he  repeated,  and  stabbed 
the  knife  backward  into  the  casing  of  the  door  so 
that  its  haft  remained  stuck  at  his  hip.  **So  now 
gimme  your  picture,"  he  said. 

Stab,  look,  and  words  left  nothing  to  be  misunder- 
stood of  the  man's  intention.  He  meant  murder. 
His  lolling  there  against  the  door  was  only  a  pose,  a 
bit  of  cat-and-mouse  play  to  heighten  his  own  en- 
joyment. At  another  time  Boldero  might  have  yield- 
ed to  the  suggestion  of  dread;  but  now  he  rather 
recognized  than  felt  it,  for  his  mind  was  numb.  If 
Jimmy  were  dead,  what  else  could  matter?  The 
world  belonged  to  the  powers  of  evil  after  all;  so 
why  go  on  laboring  and  struggling?  In  this  black 
hole  where  the  candle  streamed  and  two  shadows 
bickered  on  the  wall,  presently  one  shadow  would  die. 
[Weariness  of  body  had  become  weariness  of  soul.    He 


BOLDERO  343 

sat  on  his  window  ledge  without  hope  or  desire,  a 
dwarf  in  the  enormous  clutch  of  pessimism. 

'*I  don't  carry  your  old  picture/'  said  he. 

Fingers  regarded  him  more  sharply  than  ever. 
This  youngster's  gloomy  unconcern  had  the  voice  of 
truth. 

**You  know  where  she  is,  though,''  stated  Fingers. 

With  hands  folded  in  his  lap,  Boldero  stared  va- 
cantly at  the  darkest  comer. 

**Yes;  I  know,"  he  replied.  '* She's  put  where 
you,  nor  nobody  like  you,  will  ever  see  her  again." 

Upon  this  the  Miner  plucked  out  his  knife,  bounded 
halfway  across  the  room,  and  spread  himself  for  an- 
other leap. 

'*You  give  'er  to  me!"  he  roared.  '^You  behave 
sensible" — ^he  held  aloft  the  fork  of  his  mutilated 
hand,  like  a  man  making  horns  against  the  evil  eye 
— "or  I'll  cut  your  harslet  out  of  ye!  I'll  show  ye 
what  your  insides  look  like,  boy,  right  here  on  this 
floor!" 

Boldero  did  not  raise  his  head. 

"See  here!"  Fingers  the  Miner  suddenly  turned 
quiet  and  cajoling.  "No  use  your  acting  stubborn. 
What  is  there  left  for  ye?  Not  a  thing.  Nothin' 
whatever."  His  voice  resumed  its  old  persuasive 
whine.  "Your  friend's  dead  and  buried.  He  don't 
care.  That  picture,  you  can't  never  sell  it  on  earth. 
They'd  cheat  ye.    But  you  and  me   as  partners, 


344  BOLDERO 

why  .  .  /'  He  laughed  like  one  who  could  give  away 
kingdoms.  ''You  and  me  together,  for  I  know  where 
to  go,  can  take  that  rag  o'  paintin'  and  make  our- 
selves rich  off  it.  Rich  men!''  He  laughed  once 
more.  ''Fifty — good  Lord,  a  hunderd  thousand  dol- 
lars :  you  and  me  will  halve  it,  square ! 

"Now  come,*'  he  added  harshly,  upon  getting  no 
response,  and  threw  his  cigar  into  the  empty  fire- 
place; "don't  play  the  fool.  I'm  makin'  you  a  fair 
offer.  Think  of  it :  handsome  clothes ;  gold  money  in 
your  pockets;  the  girls  runnin'  after  you;  one  holy 
time  all  your  life,  hey  ?  You  be  sensible,  come  along, 
live  like  a  rich  man.  If  ye  don 't — ^what  ?  Next  week, 
next  fortni't,  whenever  they  happen  to  find  ye,  a 
carcass  on  the  floor  that  some  Chinaman '11  come  and 
hold  his  nose  at !    I  mean  what  I  say.    You  think ! ' ' 

Boldero  thought.  The  candle  still  burned  too  far 
away;  he  could  never  reach  it  in  time,  knock  the 
cupboard  door  shut  on  it,  or  blow  it  out ;  nor  could  his 
bare  fists  keep  off  this  nightmare,  this  smiler  with  the 
knife.  He  saw  the  room  vaguely;  amid  his  whirl  of 
emotion  perceived  in  a  lacklustre  way  that  the  door 
had  drifted  ajar,  and  that  a  pink  flower  had  bloomed 
like  a  crocus  in  the  dark  opening.  It  signified  noth- 
ing. His  vision,  directed  inward,  saw  four  walls 
furnished  as  he  remembered  them  when  Jimmy  was 
alive,  a  warm  fireside,  books  to  read,  suppers,  cheer- 
ful talk.    In  this  grimy  lodging  he  had  known  a  gen- 


BOLDERO  345 

tleman  and  received  plain  counsel  that  contained 
more  value  than  all  promises,  all  lust  of  the  eye  and 
pride  of  life  which  he  must  now  forsake. 

He  looked  upon  Fingers  the  Miner,  who  stood 
ready,  white-faced,  leaning  forward;  yet  the  figure 
was  overshadowed  by  its  meaning,  and  waited  for  an 
answer,  not  in  human  terms,  but  like  a  symbol — 
the  champion  of  pessimism  and  despair. 

*  *  Face  it.  * '  Once  more,  as  when  the  levee  was  melt- 
ing in  rain  and  darkness,  he  heard  the  words  of  his 
friend:   *'Face  this  thing  out.*' 

He  nodded,  then  rose  from  the  window  ledge.  He 
had  found  the  only  possible  weapon,  and  its  name 
was  nothing  more  than  self-respect. 

** If  I  got  a  soul  at  all,''  he  thought,  *'I  owe  it  to 
Jimmy  Weechurch.'* 

His  adversary  waited  still. 

**No,''  said  John  Boldero.  **No;  I'd  ruther  go 
with  Jimmy  dead  than  you  alive,  you  poor  crumb!" 

The  knife  swung  gleaming  between  them.  Boldero 
crouched;  a  freezing  fire,  the  chill  and  flush  of  cow- 
ardice, ran  through  him  from  toe  to  scalp;  but  he 
crouched  with  the  sharp  of  his  hands  forward,  like 
a  wrestler. 

* '  You  'U  go ! ' '  cried  Fingers.    *  *  You  'U  go ! " 

While  he  swayed  and  danced  to  catch  an  opening, 
over  his  shoulder  came  that  pink  crocus  which  Bol- 
dero had  fancied  he  saw  blossoming  in  the  dark  entry. 


346  BOLDERO 

** Ha-ha!  Marne-wallah!"  rang  out  a  laugh  that 
ended  in  a  grunt.    *'The  striker  ee-struckP' 

A  thump  as  of  a  drum  resounded.  Fingers  the 
Miner  toppled  and  fell  sidewise  to  the  floor  of  which 
he  had  spoken.  He  rolled  clumsily  over,  sat  up  on 
elbow  with  a  black  knife-handle  protruding  from 
his  left  shoulder,  and  gazed  queerly  at  Boldero;  his 
eyes  were  altered,  forgot  their  enmity,  and  grew  calm, 
clear,  intelligent. 

'*I  said  you  was  unlucky "  he  whispered. 

He  rocked  back  and  forth ;  then  fell  sidewise  again 
and  lay  clasping  his  hands,  the  torn  one  and  the 
sound,  over  the  black  stump  in  his  collar  bone. 

Boldero  saw  him  die;  then  looked  elsewhere.  The 
pink  crocus  was  a  turban.  Over  their  dead  enemy 
Ghanda  Singh  nodded  at  him,  with  a  serious  look 
and  no  trace  of  exultation. 

'*It  the  same  blow,"  declared  the  Sikh  gravely, 
'*the  same  blow  he  tryir^  to  give  my  brother  Ram- 
dayal." 


XII 


"We,"  said  the  Sikh,  ''must  leaving  this.*' 

He  spoke  without  malice,  without  regret.  In  his 
dark  eyes  and  pale  bronze  face  gleamed  only  a  tran- 
sient emotion.  Gentle,  meditative,  Ghanda  Singh 
looked  down  at  the  fallen  man  like  a  hunter  who  had 
tracked  his  game  cleverly,  struck  his  blow  in  time, 
and  was  content. 

** Leaving  this,"  he  repeated. 

Boldero  stared  also,  for  the  moment  pitying  what 
had  been  his  tempter  and  his  ragged  angel  of  death. 
It  was  quite  harmless  now.  The  breath  had  gone 
forever  from  the  nostrils  of  that  big  nose.  The  lanky 
shape  lay  as  if  sleeping,  worn  out  by  vices. 

The  meaning  of  its  relaxation,  the  consequences, 
came  slowly  to  Boldero  *s  mind. 

*'You  did  this  for  me,"  he  said,  regarding  the  Pun- 
jabi with  mingled  terror  and  compassion.    **  They  ^11 

say  you "    He  woke  suddenly  from  his  daze. 

"You  must  get  out  of  here.    They  sha'n^t  hang  you 
on  my  account!"^ 

347 


348  BOLDERO 

The  Sikh  smiled,  like  a  veteran  acknowledging  the 
generosity  of  youth. 

**A11  right,  sahib,''  he  replied.  ''No  man  to  hang 
yon  or  me.    We  both  very  fast  on  our  feet.'' 

Beckoning,  he  turned  toward  the  door.  Boldero 
went  to  extinguish  the  candle ;  but  when,  before  blow- 
ing it  out,  he  took  a  last  survey  of  the  room,  the 
homely  old  shell  so  bare  and  desecrated,  a  fit  of 
grief  overcame  and  left  him  holding  the  edge  of  a 
cupboard  shelf,  unmanned. 

''What?"  cried  Ghanda  Singh  harshly.  "That 
suar  I  have  killed  making  you  cry?"  With  a  king's 
gesture  he  indicated  the  body  on  the  floor.  "That? 
A  devil  was  living  in  it.  It  made  bombs  for  killing 
women  and  little  babies  of  the  crowd,  and  ran  away 
to  laugh,  to  count  the  money  of  blood  in  its  pocket. 
My  good  clean  knife  for  this  dirt  of  a  snake?  I  not 
touching  my  knife  again.  So  up  your  head,  sahib, 
and  come!" 

Boldero  nodded  miserably. 

"  'Twasn't  him  altogether,"  he  answered.  "I  was 
thinking  about  Jimmy." 

He  regained  himself,  and  once  more  prepared  to 
blow  out  the  candle;  but  in  the  act  of  pursing  his 
lips  he  heard  a  sound  that  made  him  wheel  about 
and  face  the  door. 

Someone  came  mounting  the  stairway  softly,  as  it 
were  with  padded  feet. 


BOLDERO  349 

They  had  remained  talking  too  long,  were  caught 
like  a  pair  of  murderers.  Or  had  they  still  time  to 
darken  the  room  and  jump  from  the  window?  Bol- 
dero,  exhausted,  could  not  act  upon  the  question. 

The  padded  footfalls  reached  the  landing. 

*'Ai-yah!''  sang  a  comfortable  voice. 

Over  the  threshold  came  waddling  that  aged  priest 
and  cook,  Leung  She.  Clothed  in  black  stuff  as 
glossy  as  a  wet  umbrella,  with  a  broad  black  hat,  the 
Chinaman  entered  like  a  Third  Murderer  in  some  old 
play,  except  that  his  face  bore  a  moonish  grin. 
'     **Hi,  hi!'' he  laughed.    ^^Jack,  boy,  Tto  2a?" 

They  did  not  echo  his  laughter.  Leung  She  ob- 
served the  fact,  squinted  at  them  briefly ;  then,  spying 
the  dead  man  on  the  floor  and  scuffing  toward  him, 
bent  down  for  a  careful  look. 

'*He  makee  die,'*  pronounced  Leung  She.  **Huh! 
He  no  good.'' 

With  the  cheerful  air  of  one  who  had  outspoken 
Bossuet  at  a  funeral,  the  priest  bobbed  up  again.  He 
stood  silent,  his  pointed  eyes  winking  in  a  rapid 
course  of  calculation. 

'*You  go,"  he  advised  the  two  others  coolly. 

''What  about  this?"  Boldero  glanced  at  the  body. 

''All  lite.    You  go.    I  fix  'em." 

"How?" 

The  river,  it  appeared,  was  ** plenty  close."  Hav- 
ing disposed  of  that  problem  in  three  words,  Leung 


350  BOLDERO 

She  slid  one  of  his  brown  talons  under  the  volnmin- 
ons  umbrella-cloth  jacket,  and  produced  a  fat  letter. 

''Fo'  you/'  He  flipped  it  into  Jack's  hand. 
''Misto  Weetshirt,  he  lite  'em;  he  tell  me  give  'em 
you.  I  guess  you  welly  Goo'  Lock.  You  do  ewelly- 
sing  Misto  Weetshirt  say;  when  he  die  he  leafee  you 
all  hees  money." 

So  far  as  Boldero  understood  this  speech,  it  did 
not  comfort  him.    He  fingered  the  letter  mournfully. 

''Now  you  go,  quick!"  Like  a  nurse  driving 
people  from  a  sick  room,  Leung  She  waved  his  com- 
panions toward  the  door.  *'You  stay  heah  too  long 
tam.    You  foolish!    Goo '-by!" 

With  that  he  blew  out  the  candle  and  left  them  in 
darkness  on  the  stairway.  When  they  had  stolen 
outdoors  they  found  the  neighborhood  of  the  Black 
Gate  deserted,  a  few  shopwindows  dimly  glowing,  the 
shabby  arcade  vacant. 

''This  way,"  whispered  Boldero. 

Through  blind,  ill-smelling  alleys  they  hurried, 
meeting  no  one,  and  so  came  to  the  shadow  mound  of 
the  levee  and  the  bar  of  light  from  the  joss-house  door. 

"Inhere." 

They  slipped  behind  a  row  of  old  flags  and  heavy 
pewter  vessels  that  screened  the  altar  from  passing 
view.  Boldero,  reaching  behind  the  third  god  among 
the  cobwebs,  recovered  his  paper  cylinder,  which  he 
tucked  inside  his  shirt.    Then,  by  the  bleary  night 


BOLDERO  351 

lamp,  with  a  strange  sense — even  while  the  Sikh  wait- 
ed before  him — of  loneliness,  he  tore  open  Jimmy's 
letter. 

It  contained  a  second  full  envelope  and  a  sheet  of 
rather  bad  note  paper  on  which  was  written  in  a 
crabbed  uncial  hand  more  clear  and  vigorous  than 
print : 

**My  dear  Boy:  When  you  read  this  I  shall  be  gone 
— ^without  having  seen  you  again,  which  vexes  me  to 
the  heart,  I  assure  you.  However,  death  is  not  to  be 
put  off  or  denied. 

^*I  hope  you  were  successful;  but  whether  or  no, 
pray  do  me  this  added  favor  if  possible.  Won't  you 
set  out  immediately  for  London?  The  journey  will 
do  you  good,  and  this  document  which  I  enclose  may 
perhaps  enable  you  to  travel  with  so-called  comfort. 
The  bank  on  which  it  is  drawn  is  in  Lombard  Street. 
Inquire  there  for  Lord  Belsire. 

'*Do  start  at  once  if  you  can,  like  the  good  chap 
and  honest  John  Boldero  that  you  are.  Should  you 
be  taking  along  the  picture,  so  much  the  better.  If 
not,  never  mind.  Your  obed't  servant, 

**  Jimmy. 

''P.  S.  Be  sure  to  buy  plenty  of  handsome  clothes 
there  and  everything  like  that.  Adamson  is  the  best 
tailor  I  know  of. 


352  BOLDERO 

*'0h,  yes;  take  my  document  to  the  local  bank  for 
your  signature." 

The  document  bore  the  superscription: 

J.  BoLDERO  Esq 're 
Travelling 

It  was  a  double  sheet  of  tough,  crackling,  greenish 
paper,  elaborately  inscribed.  After  much  hard  read- 
ing, J.  Boldero,  Esq 're,  who  had  never  seen  the  like 
before,  deciphered  it  as  a  letter  of  credit  '^to  the 
amount  of,  say,  five  hundred  pounds  sterling." 

Had  he  been  less  tired,  Boldero  might  have  felt 
astonishment  or  begun  to  dispute  the  fact.  As  it 
was  he  turned  a  countenance  of  wonder  upon  the  wait- 
ing Sikh. 

*' Jimmy,"  he  declared,  with  something  like  a  sob, 
*'was  all  right." 

Ghanda  Singh  smiled  as  one  hearing  a  matter  of 
course. 

* '  You  speak  the  truth. ' ' 

Boldero  pocketed  his  letters. 

*'It's  the  least  a  feller  can  do,"  said  he.  *'I'm 
going  to  England." 

Again  the  Sikh  smiled. 

**  Good-bye,  sahib.  Better  we  going  other  ways,  one 
here,  one  there.    So  we  are  harder  to  catch.    But 


BOLDERO  353 

who  can  tell?     The  ways  may  be  crossing  again." 

He  bent  suddenly  forward,  made  his  outspread  hand 
vibrate  in  the  startling  salute  of  the  Five  Rivers 
men,  wheeled,  and  was  gone  from  the  joss  house. 

His  shadowy  turban — ^when  Boldero  reached  the 
door — disappeared,  marching  toward  the  left  among 
the  dark  outcast  hovels  that  faced  the  embankment. 

He  had  spoken  wisely.  After  that  killing  in  the 
upper  chamber  it  was  time  they  should  part. 

Boldero  took  the  path  toward  the  right. 


XIII 

Through  the  heavy  red-brown  haze  of  a  fine 
summer  morning  in  London,  a  yonng  man  loitered 
down  a  thoroughfare  once  dear  to  Victorian  humor- 
ists. In  the  days  of  Clive  Newcome,  even  the  immor- 
tals resorted  to  Wardour  Street  as  to  a  good  easy 
hunting-ground  when  greater  game  was  scarce,  and 
there  bagged  many  a  harmless  joke.  On  this  day 
in  a  more  exacting  year,  the  neighborhood  made  no 
exhibition  of  mirth.  The  young  stranger,  at  least, 
was  not  on  the  broad  grin  as  he  walked  along,  or  even 
gently  arrided;  he  found  Wardour  Street  rather 
grimy  and  blank,  like  a  stage  street  when  the  actors 
have  gone.  He  was  looking  for  a  clothes  brush,  and 
thinking  meantime  that  this  summer  air  in  London 
recalled  the  autumnal  forest  fires  of  his  native  land. 

A  shop-window  to  which  he  came  displayed  three 
or  four  brushes  in  a  general  miscellany.  They 
seemed  to  pass  the  young  man's  inspection,  for  he 
opened  the  door  of  the  shop  and  went  in. 

It  was  a  long  dark  shop,  with  a  long  bare  counter. 
An  electric  bulb  hanging  in  a  green  pasteboard  cone 

354 


BOLDERO  355 

threw  down  upon  the  counter  a  circle  of  brilliancy, 
in  which  lay  a  heap  of  gray  fur,  coiled  like  the 
makings  of  a  muff.  As  he  drew  near,  the  muff  yawned 
and  stretched  out  many  voluptuous  toes.  It  was  a 
cat,  which  leered  at  him  with  green  eyes  upside  down, 
and  promptly  fell  asleep  again. 

*'Good  morning,  sir,'*  said  a  ruddy  young  woman, 
appearing  from  the  farther  twilight. 

*  *  Good  morning,  * '  replied  the  stranger.  *  *  Fine  big 
cat  you  have  there,  ma'am.'' 

The  woman  smiled. 

**0h,  yes,  sir.  She's  considered  rather  handsome, 
is  our  puss." 

** Maybe,"  ventured  her  admirer,  *Hhat's  why  she 
goes  to  sleep  right  in  the  spotlight." 

The  cat's  mistress  appeared  somewhat  puzzled  by 
his  terms,  but  caught  their  drift. 

'*Why,  you  see,  sir,  formerly  it  was  a  gas  lamp, 
which  made  the  boards  quite  warm.  So  puss  formed 
the  habit  of  sleeping  there,  as  I  might  say." 

The  young  man  laughed. 

** She's  an  English  cat,"  he  declared. 

*'0h,  yes,  sir!"  cried  the  woman,  as  if  any  other 
allegiance  would  be  shocking. 

"Yeah.  She's  got  a  historical  reason  for  doin' 
something  queer. ' ' 

This  flight  of  fancy  proved  too  extravagant  for 
the  shop  woman;  but,  seeing  it  was  kindly  meant, 


356  BOLDERO 

she  indulged  her  customer  with  a  smile  and  said: 

**Well,  sir,  you've  a  quick  eye  to  notice  things. 
There's  not  many  gentlemen  would  see  that  old  trick 
of  pussy's." 

**0h,"  rejoined  the  stranger,  *'mine  ain't  the  only 
bright  eyes  in  this  room." 

Now  with  such  a  compliment  the  manner  is  all; 
and  this  young  gentleman's  was  proper  as  could  be; 
nothing  more  than  his  fun.  Tall,  active  looking,  he 
had  a  good  plain  brown  face,  tanned  so  deeply  that 
his  glances  gave  out  light  and  color.  She  knew,  be- 
sides, that  the  compliment  was  not  undeserved;  and, 
therefore,  growing  ruddier  than  ever,  her  face  became 
none  the  worse,  but  sparkled  with  pleasure. 

So  Boldero  bought  his  clothes  brush  and  the  young 
woman  sold  it  with  much  good  humor  and  satisfaction. 

*' These  togs  need  more  than  brushing,  though,"  he 
said.  ''They  need  to  be  burnt  and  bought  all  over 
again. ' ' 

The  cat's  owner  coyly  advanced  an  opinion  that 
they  were  both  tidy  and  becoming.  Boldero  thanked 
her,  but  was  not  convinced. 

''They're  all  right;  only  they  won't  do.  Maybe 
you  can  tell  me.  How  do  I  go  from  here  to  find  a 
tailor  named  Adamson?    Ever  heard  of  him?" 

"Heard  of  him,  sir?"  cried  the  other  gayly. 
"Why,  Adamson  is — ^beg  pardon,  sir,  but  Adamson 
has  the  reputation  of  being  rather  expensive." 


BOLDERO  357 

The  young  stranger  did  not  appear  discouraged. 

**Hang  expense;  I'm  aimin'  high/'  he  stated  reck- 
lessly. **  *What  signifies  a  cent?  Tommy,  give  that 
dog  a  herrinV  so  long's  Adamson  don't  sew  gold 
fringe  on  my  legs." 

These  seemed  wild  and  whirling  words  for  a  re- 
spectable shop;  but  the  woman  recovered  from  her 
alarm,  and  presently  explained  in  what  region  the 
great  Adamson  held  his  awful  sway. 

**Any  cabman  would  know,  sir,"  she  added. 

"Glad  you  didn't  say  Tube.  I  spent  all  yester- 
day underground,  like  a  lost  gopher.  Every  time  I 
got  my  nose  above  'twas  either  Shepherd's  Bush  or 
the  Bank.    No  headway  whatever." 

With  this  mad  speech,  yet  with  a  polite  good  morn- 
ing, he  went  his  unaccountable  way.  The  bright  black 
eyes  he  had  praised  watched  him  out  of  sight,  their 
expression  part  bewilderment,  part  admiration,  part 
something  which  Mr.  Weller,  Senior,  might  have 
called  **more  tenderer." 

'*A  colonial,"  she  thought  charitably. 

Meantime,  unconscious  that  he  had  given  her  a 
morning's  thought,  Boldero  hailed  a  cab  and  went 
rolling  grandly  westward  through  the  reddish  haze. 
He  passed  a  number  of  green  gardens,  jailed  by  lofty 
ironwork,  and  was  set  down  in  a  street  this  time 
which  had  never  been  accused  of  levity.  The  differ- 
ence failed  to  impress  him.    All  streets  were  the  same 


358  BOLDERO 

street,  he  knew,  open  and  free  to  law-abiding  men; 
all  doors  much  the  same  door ;  so,  with  light  foot  and 
nnbashfnl  forehead,  he  mounted  the  stairs  and 
entered  the  solemn  portal  of  Adamson. 

A  Georgian  calm  at  once  enfolded  him.  Adamson 
the  Tailor's  shop  inhabited  the  best  room  of  some 
forgotten  nabob  who  flourished  after  Warren  Hast- 
ings' day,  whose  gorgeous  carved  mantel,  white  panels, 
and  white  pilasters  maintained  their  specious  nobil- 
ity. A  few  long  tables  covered  with  rolls  of  cloth — 
some  grave,  some  gay,  and  all  tremendously  neat;  a 
row  of  dressing-rooms,  white-paneled  and  white-pi- 
lastered,  built  along  the  rear  wall:  these  alone  were 
modern,  and  these  fell  decorously  into  order  and  made 
a  countenance  of  being  aged. 

The  establishment  daunted  even  Boldero.  He  had 
come  there  only  to  please  the  shadow  of  a  shade,  to 
fulfill  the  wish  of  Jimmy,  his  departed  friend. 

**No  place  for  me,"  he  thought. 

It  was  too  late  for  any  form  of  retreat.  The  royal 
Adamson  himself  came  forward,  neither  smiling  nor 
frowning,  but  all  a  mask  of  dread  civility.  Round, 
smooth,  silver-haired,  faultless,  Adamson  bowed,  as 
one  who  had  been  an  archbishop  but  had  repented  and 
chosen  a  more  serious  course  of  life ;  and  yet,  unable 
wholly  to  cast  off  the  world,  he  walked  mincingly  on 
his  toes,  like  Horace  Walpole  entering  an  assembly. 

''Good  morning,  sir,''  he  chirped. 


BOLDEKO  859' 

Boldero  faced  him  with  a  brave  man's  front.  He 
was  doing  all  this  to  honor  a  memory. 

**Good  mornin',  Mr.  Adamson.  I  want  to  buy  four 
or  five  layouts,  if  you  please;  the  best  cloth  you  carry 
in  your  house.'* 

Mr.  Adamson  indulged  in  a  charming  smile. 

**Ah,  very  well,*'  said  he.  **My  son  will  attend 
you  in  a  moment." 

He  turned  away  airily.  Some  underling  conveyed 
Boldero  and  shut  him  into  a  dressing-room  where, 
among  mirrors  and  fat  leather  cushions,  he  reclined 
mournfully,  viewing  his  own  brown  face  at  many 
angles.  A  taboret  before  him  displayed  in  a  huge 
brass  vessel  a  hundred  of  Samsoun  cigarettes,  chastely 
decorated.  He  took  the  liberty  of  smoking  one,  for 
no  man  came  to  open  his  door. 

'*This  ain't  the  place  for  me,''  he  reflected.  '*Too 
high!  They  wouldn't  make  nothing  short  of  an  as- 
cension robe." 

Still,  he  waited  and  held  his  ground.  In  the  next 
booth  people  were  busy  talking  and  calling  measure- 
ments. Boldero  forgot  them  while  he  smoked  and 
reviewed  his  past;  a  week  ago  he  had  first  sighted 
Dover  Cliff  and  watched  the  forehead  of  England 
rise  above  glittering  smooth  Channel  water ;  six  days, 
four  days,  two  days  ago,  he  had  gone  to  Jimmy's 
bank  in  Lombard  Street,  asked  for  Jimmy's  friend, 
the  vague  Lord  Belsire,  and  at  last  been  told  to  in- 


360  BOLDERO 

quire  again  on  Tuesday  morning.  But  J.  Boldero, 
Esq 're,  Travelling,  had  ceased  to  put  confidence  in 
lords  or  princes.  He  was  alone;  he  was  tired;  and 
at  the  present  moment  he  had  cause  to  feel  neg- 
lected. 

* '  Poor  old  Jimmy ! ' '  he  sighed.  * '  Jimmy  did  every- 
thing he  could.     He  behaved  like  a  father  to  me." 

From  beyond  the  white  panels  of  the  cell,  voices 
in  gentle  argument  floated  gradually  within  his  ken. 

*'Why,  now  really,  sir,"  declared  the  voice  of 
Adamson,  *'l  fancy  they  fit  you." 

Then  came  another  voice,  which  made  Boldero 's 
hair  to  rise  and  his  blood  to  curdle. 

''You  do?  I  fancy  you're  wrong  for  once."  It 
was  the  toneless,  penetrating  voice  of  a  deaf  man. 
*'John  Adamson,  my  Jo,  John,  you're  mistaken. 
These  trousers  are  on  the  tight  side." 

There  came  a  soothing  reply. 

**I  dare  say  you're  right,  sir.  Possibly  they  are 
a  bit  on  the  tight  side;  but  nowadays  we're  so 
often " 

The  deaf  man  spoke  again. 

**Tush!  Nowadays?"  he  objected  clearly.  ''John, 
my  legs  are  older  than  yours,  but  frightfully  vigor- 
ous yet.  I  won't  have  them  cribbed,  confined,  bound 
in.    You  may  talk  your  nowadays  to ' 

Boldero  had  risen,  dropped  his  cigarette,  and  stood 
like  one  in  a  dream.    This  was  a  voice  from  the 


BOLDERO  361 

country  beyond  the  grave.    He  sprang  upon  one  of 
the  fat  leather  cushions. 

''Jimmyr'hecaUed.    *' Oh,  Jimmy!''  * 

And  then  the  house  of  Adamson  beheld  a  thing 
that  rocked  it  on  its  base.  A  young  savage,  leaping 
to  the  top  of  a  white-paneled  partition,  hung  there 
and  stared  down  into  the  next  sacred  compartment. 

* '  Good  gorry ! ' '  panted  the  savage. 

Below,  among  more  cushions  and  mirrors,  and 
thronged  about  by  a  little  jury  of  sad  men  with  tape 
measures  round  their  necks,  stood  James  Weechurch, 
half  dressed,  but  wholly  alive  and  well.  Beside  him 
the  great  Adamson  recoiled  in  horror. 

'*What?''  cried  the  likeness  of  Jimmy.  **Is  that 
you?    The  boy?    Come  down  here!*' 

Boldero  bestrode  the  wall  and  dropped  among  them, 
light  as  a  jumping  jack. 

'*Move  out,*'  said  Jimmy.    **We  wish  to  talk." 

The  tailors  went  like  a  flock  of  blackbirds;  Adam- 
eon,  with  a  somnambulistic  bow,  closed  the  door;  it 
was  a  moment  of  dread  and  wonder  in  that  house 
of  the  nabob. 

**I  thought  you  were  dead!"  said  Boldero. 

Jimmy  sat  on  a  cushion,  and  motioned  him  to  do 
the  same. 

**Me  dead?"  His  eyes  were  quick  as  ever  at  the 
reading  of  lips.  **Me  dead?  Why  on  earth  should 
you  think  that?" 


362  BOLDERO 

''They  told  me  so/' 

Boldero,  not  yet  convinced  they  were  wrong,  began 
feeling  for  a  letter  cherished  in  his  pocket.  '*And 
you  wrote  me  this.  Fingers  the  Miner  said  you  was 
buried." 

Jimmy,  in  a  magnificent  shirt  and  collar,  but 
trousers  merely  sketched  with  white  basting-thread, 
leaned  comfortably  back  to  read  his  own  handwriting. 
He  was  no  ghost,  but,  beyond  all  doubt,  his  living 
self,  though  altered:  his  leathern  face,  close-cropped 
white  hair,  and  twinkling  eyes  the  same  as  ever,  but 
the  whole  man  subtly  transformed  and  quickened. 
Boldero  felt  but  could  not  define  the  change.  Jim- 
my's nature  had  been  rusty  and  was  now  bright 
metal. 

*'No  wonder  you  thought  .  .  .!  I  must  be  losing 
my  mind.  Formerly  my  letters  were  clear,''  com- 
plained Jimmy.  ''However,  I  did  write  that  on  a 
packing-case  while  the  porters  waited.  But  Leung 
She  could  have  told  you.  It  was  my  cousin  that  died. 
Leung  She  knew  I  was  called  home  suddenly " 

"I  never  asked  him,"  explained  Boldero.  "We 
ducked  out  in  a  hurry.    A  man  was  killed." 

The  reader  glanced  up  quickly. 

"Ah?  Killed?"  said  he,  in  a  guarded  tone. 
"By " 

Boldero  could  be  cautious. 


BOLDERO  363 

*'By  happen-so/*  he  replied;  and  after  a  moment 
added:  **It  was  that  there  Fingers." 

**Ahr'  repeated  his  friend,  watching  him  keenly. 

**Yeah.''  Jack's  eyes,  wide,  ingenuous,  and  very 
blue,  seemed  to  misunderstand  the  scrutiny  they  met. 
He  was  not  going  to  give  anyone  away,  least  of  all 
Ghanda  Singh,  his  rescuer.  *'Yeah.  It  was  Fin- 
gers.'* 

If  Mr.  Weechurch  smiled  he  might  have  been  think- 
ing of  his  letter,  for  now  he  read  it  again  before 
tearing  it  up. 

''Devilish  glad  to  see  you,  my  boy,"  he  declared. 
**What  were  you  doing  there  in  the  next  booth?" 

**Waitin'  to  get  measured." 

Jimmy  flung  the  pieces  of  his  letter  into  a  basket 
and  jumped  up,  with  a  snort. 

** Waiting,  eh?  Look  here!"  He  pounced  at  the 
door,  opened  it,  and  cried  in  a  voice  that  brought  the 
entire  force  of  workmen  running.  **Look  here !  John 
Adamson,  what  have  we  done  that  my  friend  is  left 
waiting  all  day  in  one  of  your  blessed  loose-boxes? 
Tell  me  that,  and  unyoke!    What  does  it  mean?" 

The  wrath  of  Jimmy  was  a  consuming  thing,  ter- 
ble  even  unto  tailors.  Adamson 's  marble  became  as 
wax. 

**Why,  really,  sir!"  His  countenance  melted  into 
the  uneasy  grins  of  an  old  rogue  who  knew  his  mas- 
ter's way.    **My  memory  is  no  longer  what  it  was, 


364  BOLDERO 

sir.  Pardon  me.  I  failed  to  recognize — dear  me! — 
one  of  your  friends " 

Jimmy  cut  short  his  apology  by  thrusting  Bol- 
dero  at  him. 

''Take  that  young  man,"  he  cried,  ''and  exercise 
your  art  upon  him.  One  of  my  friends?  He's  my 
child,  my  great-godson,  and  the  apple  of  my  eye.  Do 
your  worst,  and  kindly  be  quick  about  it,  John,  for 
we're  going  into  the  country  as  soon  as  possible.'' 

A  moment  later  Boldero,  once  more  in  his  own  com- 
partment, found  himself  the  object  and  centre  of 
great  doings.  Tailors  ran  in  and  out,  tailors  crouched 
at  his  feet,  tailors  encircled  him,  held  up  his  arms, 
murmured  deprecation  in  his  ears,  took  his  altitude, 
wrote  him  down  in  Domesday  Book.  He  enjoyed  it 
immensely;  he  would  have  enjoyed  anything,  he 
could  have  embraced  them  all;  for  was  not  his  idol 
back  on  its  throne,  his  world  a  place  of  brightness 
and  music,  now  that  Jimmy  had  returned  from  the 
shades  ? 

Through  the  open  door  he  saw  his  old  friend,  com- 
pletely dressed,  very  brisk  and  cheerful,  watching 
the  commotion. 

"Don't  be  too  fastidious.  We  need  time  for  lunch, 
and  well  have  a  long  afternoon." 

Boldero  was  reminded  of  a  duty. 

"I  was  to  go  to  see  your  friend  Lord  What's-name 


BOLDERO  365 

this  afternoon/'  he  said.  ''How  about  it  now, 
Jimmy  r* 

"Lord  who?'' 

"LordBelsire." 

"Damn  it,  that's  me!"  said  Jimmy  peevishly. 
"Hurry  them  np!"  Then  he  began  to  laugh.  "JacKT 
you're  the  picture,  in  there,  of  Lemuel  Gulliver  being 
measured  by  trigonometry  in  Lilliput. — ^I'm  devilish 
glad  to  see  you,  boy!" 


XIV 

On  a  hot  summer  evening,  at  the  close  of  the  hap- 
piest yet  most  troubled  week  in  his  life,  Boldero  came 
walking  home  with  Jimmy  through  a  green  lane 
sunken  between  hawthorns  and  pollard  elms.  Flow- 
ers— ^wild  thyme,  mauve  gypsy  rose,  and  yellow  toad- 
flax— covered  the  bank  on  either  hand;  little  move- 
ments of  wayside  creatures  frightened  by  the  two 
men's  advancing  shadows,  fluttered  the  hedgerow  now 
and  again  before  them ;  above,  where  sea  breeze  cooled 
the  hilltop  air,  an  English  skylark  twinkled  like  a 
black  star  and  filled  the  sunset  light  with  an  accom- 
panying glory  of  song. 

**Hold  on!"  said  Boldero,  pausing  at  the  gate  of 
a  field  to  stare  aloft  and  listen. 

' '  Wish  I  could  hear  him, '  *  growled  Jimmy.  '  *  Used 
to  do.  Skylarking !  The  chap  who  coined  that  word, 
by  George,  was  a  poet  good  as  any,  and  saw  the  con- 
trast of  earth  and  heaven.  We  plod  while  our  friend 
sings.  I  envy  you.  Confound  these  dead  ears  of 
mine;  all  they  can  do  is  remember  what  they're 
missing!" 

366 


BOLDERO  367 

Through  the  barred  gap  in  the  hawthorn  beside 
them  appeared  a  great  bosom  of  snnlit  turf,  crowded 
with  sheep — some  reddled,  others  earmarked  in  blue. 
A  young  ram  feeding  before  a  scarlet  golf  flag  seemed 
to  bear  it  over  his  shoulder  like  an  Agnus  Dei.  Ewes 
bleated  for  their  lost  lambs,  or,  having  found  them, 
submitted  to  the  hunger  of  brown  fleece-mops  that 
burrowed  underneath  and  waggled.  A  peaceful  fore- 
ground, the  flock  continued  its  wandering  edge  into 
a  valley,  beyond  which  rose  hill  after  broad  hill 
painted  in  squares  of  green  crops  and  of  pinkish  fal- 
low. Intervening  ridges  and  the  eastern  sky-line 
bore  clumps  of  darker  and  older  growth — here  a 
wood;  there  cottage  roofs  whose  thatch  made  billows 
round  a  Norman  church  tower. 

"  'Can't  never  'ear  the  'um  of  zummer  bees,'  " 
mourned  the  deaf  man. 

Boldero  found  a  different  meaning  in  the  prospect. 

'*And  think — all  this,"  he  cried,  ** belongs  to  you! 
Far  as  we  can  see." 

Jimmy,  laying  one  hand  on  the  youngster's  arm, 
made  a  weary  grimace. 

**What  profit  in  thinking  so,  my  dear  boy?"  said 
he.  "Yes,  I'm  legal  owner  of  this  landscape;  but 
lawyer's  parchments  and  pothooks  mean  very  little — 
transient  affairs.  They  pretend  I  own  two  or  three 
more  landscapes,  fair  and  smiling  as  this,  in  other 
parts  of  the  country.    What  then?    Can  they  make 


368  BOLDERO 

a  man  happy?  No;  nor  unhappy,  either.  Did  you 
ever  see  the  remarkable  postage  stamp  issued  by  a 
great  dominion  that  proclaimed,  'We  Hold  a  Vaster 
Empire  Than  Has  Been'?  Like  Corsica  Boswell's 
hatband ;  or  like  wearing  a  sandwich  board — *  I  'm  the 
richest  damned  idiot  on  earth!'  Such  views,  at  my 
age,  lose  their  inflation.  Ownership?  Labor  and 
sorrow,  soon  cut  off,  and  we  fly  away.  The  bird  up 
there  is  one  of  my  tenants;  I  own  his  nest  on  the 
ground,  think  of  that;  and  yet  he  won't  sing  loud 
enough  for  landlord  to  hear.  Do  you  envy  me.  Jack? 
Now  as  you  are  a  Roman,  tell  me  true." 

Boldero  watched  a  flight  of  black  motes — jackdaws 
or  rooks — ^hovering  to  settle  and  vanish  in  the  square 
tower  far  away. 

*'You  always  think  right  straight,"  he  answered. 
"My  fool  notions  kind  of  make  me  ashamed." 

The  old  man  laughed  and  turned  from  the  gate. 
They  walked  on,  a  pair  of  knickerbockered  trampers 
homeward  bound,  comfortably  tired,  glowing  with 
twenty  miles  of  fresh  air  and  exercise. 

**Fond  of  my  own  place,  just  the  same,"  growled 
Jimmy,  as  they  topped  the  hill  and  saw  their  lane 
reach  downward  into  a  valley  of  streaming  sun  and 
shadow.  Midway  on  the  slope  an  avenue  of  huge 
beeches  led  westerly,  widening  to  become  a  grove  in 
which  Lord  Belsire's  favorite  farm,  Lomansworthy, 
reared  a  silhouette  of  old  chimneys  and  gables.    De- 


BOLDERO  369 

spite  his  late  renunciation,  Jimmy's  face  brightened 
with  a  look  of  something  very  close  akin  to  pride. 

**One  does  belong  to  certain  places/'  he  said. 
**Only,  we  have  to  leave  all  this."  His  eyes  rested 
affectionately  on  the  grove  and  black  roofs,  the  shin- 
ing fields  beyond,  and  the  little  river  which  in  the 
valley  bottom  reflected  a  drooping  elm,  the  sky,  and 
a  strip  of  fiery  cloud.  *'It's  not  so  bad,''  mused 
Jimmy.  **As  the  thief  said,  going  to  be  hung,  when 
he  drank  St.  Giles's  bowl, '  'Twould  be  good  if  a  man 
might  stay  by  it!'  " 

They  turned  into  the  avenue  of  mighty  beeches  and 
went  on.  It  was  a  tunnel  of  green  and  gold,  upheld 
by  giant  boles  against  the  sunset.  Down  this  tunnel 
rode  a  man  to  meet  them — a  lean,  swarthy  man  in 
whipcord,  mounted  on  a  beautiful  chestnut  mare,  who 
came  dancing  sidelong,  her  haunches  outlined  with  a 
play  of  light.  The  man  wore  a  pink  turban  and  sat 
grinning. 

**How  goes  it,  Ghanda  Singh?"  called  Jimmy. 

"She  needs  riding,"  the  Sikh  reported.  While  he 
spoke  the  mare  took  him  a  pirouette.  "Ho,  child! 
A  woman  with  nothing  to  do." 

"Jack  will  teach  her  behavior  to-morrow,"  began 
Belsire. 

But  the  chestnut  was  gone  flying  toward  the  lane, 
her  rider  glancing  back  with  a  joyful  flash  of  teeth. 

"Who  killed   Fingers  the  Miner?"  asked  Lord 


370  BOLDERO 

Belsire,   as  if   propounding  a   Cock   Robin  riddle.      1 

'*I  never  said  anyone  killed  him,''  replied  Boldero. 

Several  days  ago,  in  the  stables  of  Lomansworthy, 
he  had  met  Ghanda  Singh,  looking  like  a  man  born 
and  reared  there  among  horses.  They  had  talked 
much,  but  not  of  that  slaying  in  the  upper  chamber. 

''I  told  you  Fingers  got  it  by  happen-so." 

*' Humph!  I  fear,"  retorted  James  Weechurch 
dryly,  **you  wish  to  soak  up  merit  belonging  to  my  old 
and  faithful  follower." 

Boldero  took  the  imputation  without  a  word ;  then, 
chancing  to  look  at  his  companion,  knew  by  the  smile 
that  it  was  irony.  Lord  Belsire  meant  anything  but 
displeasure. 

They  crossed  the  lawn  and  entered  the  gray 
stone  house.  A  boar's  head  snarled  from  above  the 
door.  On  a  table,  under  a  stand  of  riding-crops 
where  they  hung  their  headgear,  lay  a  dozen  news- 
papers over-lapped  with  names  displayed  in  a  row. 
Jimmy  glanced  at  them  as  he  passed. 

'  *  Bad  news  from  the  continent. ' '  He  had  said  this 
a  dozen  times  lately. 

** Ghanda  Singh  was  a  prophet,"  replied  Boldero. 
*'War's  comin'." 

** Very  like." 

They  parted,  to  meet  again  at  dinner.  In  a  great 
stone  hall,  lighted  by  many  candles  and  a  fire,  though 
its  windows  were  open  on  a  terrace  of  bright  turf  and 


BOLDERO  371 

laurels,  they  ate  what  seemed,  after  their  exercise,  the 
best  of  many  capital  meals.  At  each  man's  elbow 
stood  a  tall  glass  of  Irish  whisky  and  soda  that,  as 
Boldero  observed,  would  make  a  cat  speak;  yet  they 
ate  in  silence,  for  the  most  part,  or  made  mention 
briefly  of  things  they  had  admired  during  the  day's 
walk. 

"Adamson  cut  you  pretty  well,'*  declared  Jimmy, 
at  dessert. 

Boldero  felt  surprise  and  pleasure.  He  had  for- 
gotten his  grand  evening  clothes;  everything  always 
fitted  him,  or  soon  grew  familiar. 

**I  got  'em  to  please  you." 

**When  you  thought  I  was  dead,"  his  host  added, 
musing. 

A  serious  elderly  man  watched  them  from  before  the 
broad  fireplace. 

*'I  want  to  see  that  Chinese  painting  again,"  said 
Jimmy,  turning  to  him.  **Go  fetch  it,  Faithome; 
and  have  the  coffee  in." 

The  serious  elderly  man  withdrew,  but  soon  re- 
turned. Jimmy  unrolled  among  his  candles  and 
weighted  flat,  with  a  pair  of  silver  basins,  the  land- 
scape created  by  a  queen  when  the  dust  of  antiquity 
was  alive,  moving,  recording  thoughts  for  another  age 
to  recognize.  Boldero  came  round  the  dinner  table 
and  leaned  over  his  friend's  chair.  Once  more  the 
homely  picture  of  Three  Cows  performed  its  magic. 


372  BOLDERO 

There  lay  the  mountain  peaks  under  the  dawn, 
ghostly,  shimmering,  unchanged  even  by  time,  but 
quietly  foretelling  its  power  in  an  allegory  of  the 
beasts  that  perish. 

*'Well  nigh  perfect,"  said  Jimmy.  '*A  wonder!" 
He  rolled  it  together  carefully.  **Loot,"  he  contin- 
ued. **Loot.  Ill  restore  it  into  proper  hands,  to 
the  family  that  owns  it  rightfully.  By  the  Five  Hun- 
dred Jinns,  what  a  lovely  old  thing.  Here;  lock  it 
up  again,  Faithome,  please." 

He  drank  his  coffee  and  sat  pondering. 

'*IVe  collected  many  pieces  roundabout  the  world. 
Jack,  but  this  piece  marks  high  water.  Number  One 
in  my  lot.    Thanks  to  you." 

**And  thanks  to  little  Ramdayal,"  said  Boldero. 

'*And  to  Ramdayal.  But  he's  provided  for;  IVe 
done  nothing  for  you.    Let's  move  outdoors." 

Through  a  French  window  they  gained  the  ter- 
race, where  bam  swallows  flew,  darting,  swerving,  re- 
doubling a  hundred  vagaries  before  the  last  glow 
of  summer  day  should  fail  into  twilight.  By  Jimmy's 
side  Boldero  paced  a  grassy  level,  fresh-mown,  cool- 
scented,  which  overlooked  a  long  meadow  slope  and 
the  tiny  English  river.  Wandering  through  verdure 
below,  the  stream  showed  as  a  dark  green  glaze,  an 
evening  pool  where  swans  floated  asleep,  like  cakes 
of  foam  or  ice  drifting  under  a  nightfall  of  elm  and 
willow  shade. 


BOLDERO  373 

*'Bad  news  from  the  continent/'  repeated  Jimmy 
for  the  last  time. 

**Yeah.    Sure!    It's  bad,'*  assented  Boldero. 

Each  man  knew  the  other  had  been  thinking  of  little 
else  all  day.  They  walked  a  few  turns  without  speak- 
ing. The  sallow  green  light  covering  the  hills  be- 
came gradually  musical  with  bells  from  church  tower 
and  church  tbwer,  as  villages  in  the  distance  rang 
their  evening  chimes.  All  the  countryside  faded  little 
by  little  into  an  umber  dusk  and  a  harmony  of  sweet 
bells. 

**If  war  should  spoil  it!"  Jimmy  was  talking  to 
himself.  *'I  sometimes  think  this  earth  has  been  con- 
verted to  the  devil,  peopled  with  Darwin  apes  that 
invent  new  ways  of  murdering.  You,  my  boy,  are 
a  comfort.  I'm  a  lonely  old  man  without  chil- 
dren.'' 

**You  can't  call  me  inventive,  anyway,"  Boldero 
answered.    **My  brains  work  awful  slow." 

There  was  light  enough  stiU  for  the  reading  of 
lips  and  hearts. 

**It's  rather  like  finding  a  son,"  declared  Lord 
Belsire.  ''Let  us  talk  about  your  future.  Come; 
tell  me  what  I  can  best  do  for  you,  Jack?" 

The  bells  chimed  to  one  another  from  their  hills, 
but  Boldero  hearkened  for  something  else — for  the 
right  answer  to  his  inward  questioning. 

**A11 1  want's  your  advice." 


374  BOLDERO 

The  bam  swallows  had  gone;  the  bats  begun  to 
tumble  above  high  clusters  of  rhododendron. 

**I  do  a  lot  more  thinkin'  than  you'd  suspect, 
Jimmy/'  he  said.  **If  this  here  war  comes  I'd  kind 
of  like,  maybe,  to  go  fight  on  the  French  side.  My 
mother  was  French.  I  spoke  it  before  I  learnt  Eng- 
lish. No;  I  don't  mean  like  to.  That  ain't  the  word. 
Wish  I  wasn't  so  cussed  ignorant,  or  I  could  tell  you 
what  I  do  mean." 

Jimmy  stopped  midway  on  the  terrace,  drew  out 
a  cigar,  and  handled  without  lighting  it. 

'  *  Ah ! "  said  he.  * '  Must  I  find  you  only  to  lose  you  ? ' ' 

Hooking  their  arms  together,  Boldero  led  him  on, 
up  and  down  the  sweet-smelling  lawn. 

''You  been  like  a  father.  Now  tell  me,"  he  urged. 
"They  say  France  will  feel  the  go-off  hardest.  Don't 
you  think  I  ought  to  be  there  ?  " 

Lord  Belsire  was  watching  his  swans  adrift  in  the 
river. 

''If  you  feel  so,"  he  admitted,  "I'm  not  the  fellow 
to  stop  you." 

The  bell-ringing  ceased;  hill  and  valley  grew  si- 
lent; the  darkness  deepened. 

"My  brains  work  slow,"  resumed  Boldero.  "I  fig- 
ger  it  this  fashion:  There's  a  crowd  of  fire  bugs 
trying  to  bum  the  world  up." 

"Very  like,"  said  Jimmy. 

"I've  thought  about  'em  all  this  week.    Seemed 


BOLDERO  376 

kind  of  foolish,  in  a  way,  my  settin'  up  to  do  any- 
thing. You  really  suppose  it  would  be  .  .  .  sensi- 
ble?'' 

*'Very!''  cried  the  owner  of  Lomansworthy,  with 
an  odd,  abrupt  decision.  *'My  advice  is  not  worth 
much.  I  've  nothing  but  money,  you  know.  Too  old ; 
too  deaf.    But  I'd  say — very  sensible!" 

They  smiled  at  each  other. 

**Glad  you  back  me,"  said  Boldero;  '^for  that's 
how  I  figgered,  anjnvay.  I  expect  they'll  need  all 
hands.  A  lot  of  fire  bugs  trying  to  bum  it  up.  Got 
to  go  put  'em  out." 

From  the  windows  of  the  farmhouse  candlelight 
began  to  streak  the  lawn;  young  fretful  owls  went 
squalling  through  the  beechwood  avenue ;  river,  elms, 
and  sleeping  swans  blended  in  a  darkness  that  might 
have  been  the  foundation  of  serenity. 

''Yeah!    Got  to  go!" 

And  then,  like  history,  a  fragment  of  a  child's 
rhyme  repeated  itself, — the  words  and  the  wisdom 
of  Mother  Goose : 

**To  put  'em  out's  the  only  way,"  said  honest 
John  Boldero. 

THE  END 


YB  39712 


9^/ 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UBRARY 


